Coercion: Styne Saga, Part 2
by M.J.Ellsworth
Summary: Sequel to "Endangered." Pre-series A/U. Jacob Styne and his surviving relatives are back for vengeance, and when they recapture Sam, they're determined to adopt him and prepare him for Azazel. As Sam struggles to cope, Dean and his loved ones are frantic to rescue him.
1. Memories

_**Author's Note:**_ _Hi everyone! As promised, I'm working on a sequel to "Endangered." I hope you love it, and I hope it lives up to your expectations._

 _If you have not read "Endangered," I tried recapping it, so hopefully everything will make sense. Or you can check it out on my profile page. I'm very proud of it, and would love your feedback._

 _This story is an AU—basically, I'm exploring what might have happened if the Styne family met the Winchesters right before season one. Things turn out differently, but how differently? Let's find out!_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters. This is purely for fan enjoyment._

 **SPN**

Night had fallen, but with the garden lights radiating around the flowerbeds and along the path up to a domed gazebo, it was still easy to see through the dark. Jessica Moore stood tall and wary in a blue knee-length dress with silver strap heels. Her golden hair was styled exquisitely with curls and rhinestones. She could have been at a wedding if she wasn't completely by herself.

Was she by herself? She looked scared and cautious. After glancing over her shoulder, she scurried off the path and into the shadows. A fountain bubbled to her left, and as she veered away from it, she sought shelter beneath a cluster of crepe myrtles. She took a moment to collect herself, pressing her hands against her mouth to stifle an anguished cry.

"Jessica!"

She stiffened at the sound of Jacob Styne's southern voice. He was close, and he was amused—hard to say which was worse.

"Come on back, darling! Can't leave without the magic word, so there's really nowhere for you to run!"

She shook her head and picked up her pace, eventually entering a courtyard lined by hedges. It was occupied by an enormous marble statue of an angry two-headed bird with wide, unfurled wings. It was monstrous—the pedestal alone reached her shoulder height—and for a terrible moment she could only stare at it in shock. Then she turned, eager to find some other refuge, only to find herself face-to-face with another woman.

Elizabeth Lavenza Styne. Like Jessica, Elizabeth was a twenty-one-year-old blonde all decked out for a wedding. But while Jessica could have been a simple guest, Elizabeth was clearly the bride. She wore a flowing white princess gown with a fitted bodice and capped sleeves. A diamond tiara crowned her head. She would have been beautiful if she wasn't holding back tears.

"You think you can escape when I can't?" she asked severely.

Jessica shrank back, eyeing the ceremonial knife in Elizabeth's right hand. "Please! I know you're not like the rest of them. We can help each other."

Elizabeth clucked her tongue and slowly advanced. "Unfortunately, darling, you're beyond helping. The moment you laid eyes on sweet little Sam, you were doomed."

Jessica caught her breath and bolted to the right, but didn't make it more than a few feet before she was swept up by an invisible current that carried her back to the pedestal. She was shoved against it with such crushing force that she groaned. Meanwhile, Elizabeth crossed over to her maliciously.

"It could be worse," she whispered sadly, stroking Jessica's face. "At least you won't be around to see what they have planned for your boyfriend." And with that, she brandished her knife and stabbed her victim through the chest.

 **SPN**

 **(Chicago, Illinois … Tuesday, October 20, 2005)**

Sam woke with a start, gasping, sweating and shaking. It took him a moment to remember where he was—in a shabby motel far from California and anything resembling a normal life—and then he sighed, running a hand through his thick, tousled hair. What time was it?

He glanced around the room and saw his dad sitting by the window, writing in his journal. The desk lamp was on, but it didn't cast much of a glow, and it didn't seem to bother Dean, who slept soundly with his face buried in the pillow. The clock read 4:38 a.m. Not too early to get up, especially since he was past the point of resting.

That nightmare… It felt so real. Of course, he thought about Jessica every day, but he hadn't seen her in over a year—not since they said goodbye at Harvelle's Roadhouse in Nebraska. He still remembered that conversation word for word.

" _I don't want you to leave."_

 _They stood in a private corner of the dilapidated saloon, away from the watchful eyes of Sam's family and friends. It had been a week since the conflict with the Styne clan in Shreveport, Louisiana, and John didn't think it wise to linger much longer. While most of their enemies were dead, at least two—Earl and Freddie Styne—remained at large, and no one seriously believed prison would hold Jacob or Elizabeth. Sooner or later, they were bound to escape, and when they did, they would undoubtedly seek retribution._

 _Sam squeezed Jessica's hand, struggling to find the appropriate words. She meant everything to him. After nineteen years of constant danger, living on the road where he was trained to hunt monsters, he finally found peace and security at Stanford University. But it wasn't until his friend Brady introduced him to Jessica that he actually thought he might have the future he always dreamed about. Normal. Happy. Safe._

 _Little did he know, his father came from a long line of mystical sages who belonged to a secret organization called the Men of Letters. According to the Stynes, uninitiated heirs of the order—like John, Dean and Sam—were called legacies, and they naturally possessed extraordinary, untapped potential deep within their souls. They should have been raised as elite, scholarly guardians, far from the vulgar, violent affairs of ordinary hunters. But something in 1958 decimated the entire organization—right around the time Sam's grandfather, Henry Winchester, disappeared from John's life—and they were never heard from again. John was raised completely in the dark, unaware of his heritage until, by chance, Dean happened to meet a fortune-teller in Lily Dale, New York who read his palm._

 _Her name was Elizabeth Lavenza Styne, from the ancient house of Frankenstein. She actually lived in the early nineteenth century, where she was betrothed to Victor Frankenstein himself, but her heart belonged to another. An alchemist named Dr. Thomas Benton. They tried to elope, but the Stynes tracked them down and murdered Elizabeth for her impudence. They explained to Doc Benton that, thanks to a powerful family ritual, Elizabeth would one day be reincarnated, long after his time. He could grow old and die, for all they cared, alone and miserable, knowing he would never see his beloved again._

 _But Doc Benton was an alchemist, and he devoted himself to the mystery of the philosopher's stone, i.e. the elixir of life. He gained immortality and spent the next 164 years waiting for Elizabeth's rebirth. It might sound romantic, but in the meantime, his body continued to age and wither. His organs failed, forcing him to steal replacements from innocent men and women. He became a monster, and in 1990, while Elizabeth was still a child, he was mutilated by a hunter. John Winchester. Elizabeth witnessed the act in a trance brought on by her quartz crystals, and she never forgave John for his crime, and she never forgave her Uncle Monroe for refusing to help._

 _So, in 2004, when she read Dean's palm, she found herself facing a remarkable opportunity. With the Men of Letters destroyed, their legacies were rare and extremely precious—an endangered species worth more than gold. The ancient Styne ritual that facilitated their reincarnation required them to sacrifice legacies every generation, or else the spell would expire, and they would die like regular humans. Elizabeth knew how much her uncle would pay for legacies, so she ran home and told him all about the Winchesters in exchange for his blessing to repair Doc Benton's body, restoring him to health, so she could marry him once and for all._

 _Several days later, her cousin, Jacob Styne, and four of his henchmen ambushed Sam and Jessica out in California, kidnapping them and effectively ruining any chance they had of being together. It wasn't just because of the Stynes—though as long as they remained a threat, Jessica would remain a target to get to Sam. The FBI were also involved, investigating the Stynes for fraud, arms dealing, tax evasion, kidnapping, and murder. Special Agent Victor Henriksen and his team would be looking for the Winchesters as material witnesses and vigilantes. In theory, they were on the same side, but honestly, it would be too difficult to hunt while in protective custody, and the feds weren't equipped to protect them anyway. Better to avoid them altogether, which meant leaving Stanford, where Sam would be too easy to find._

" _It's safer this way," he told Jessica regretfully, brushing his fingers through her hair. "We don't have any known connections to Nebraska, so the bad guys shouldn't be able to track you out here. Ellen and Ash have everything under control. Just follow their instructions, and nothing will happen to you."_

 _It was a lot to ask. Jessica had more to give up than Stanford. She had a home—a real home—and parents who loved her, who wouldn't know whether to hope for her return or mourn her loss. It wasn't fair, and Sam hated himself for putting them through all this._

" _But why do you have to go?" Jess protested. "If the Roadhouse is safe enough for me, why isn't it safe enough for you?"_

" _It is," he lied. "But with so many Stynes still out there, I can't just sit around waiting for this nightmare to end. My dad's been helping the feds try to draw them out, and I'm going join them. Maybe the sooner we resolve this, the sooner things can return to the way they were." Like that would ever happen. Sam had come to the realization that he was cursed, and he knew better than to expect anything to ever be the same again._

" _Well then, I want to help too."_

" _Jess—"_

" _Please, Sam. I think… I think I love you, and I don't want to lose you."_

 _He couldn't believe her words. They had only been dating for a few months, but the summer they had spent together had been perfect, and she was everything he wanted. Now that he knew she felt the same… It made his heart ache. "I'm sorry," he whispered, drawing her into his arms. "I don't want to lose you either. That's why you have to stay. Jess, if anything ever happened to you, I think it would kill me. Please. Stay here, where you'll be safe."_

He never told her he loved her back. How could he? She was better off without him, and he almost hoped she would meet someone in Nebraska who might help her move on. He certainly wasn't worth waiting for, and it would have been selfish to ask. He never called or emailed her, and though he suspected Dean might be passing along messages through Jo Harvelle, he hoped breaking contact would simplify things. He thought, over time, her feelings might abate, allowing her to heal.

Sam, on the other hand? He still thought about her every day, and even now, over a year later, she was still haunting his dreams. Damn. The nightmares had been getting better since the spring. Why were they starting to return now, all of a sudden? It was like they came out of nowhere.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he crawled out of bed and trudged wearily towards the desk, where he took a seat across from his father. John glanced up at him knowingly, and for a moment, neither spoke. It sometimes amazed Sam that they could share such a companionable silence after everything they had been through, after everything they had said to each other. When he first left for Stanford, John told him never to come back. He was basically disowned.

But if one good thing came out of the conflict with the Stynes, it was the restoration of their family. The Winchesters. They loved each other more than words could describe, and they weren't going to stomach anyone who posed a threat to any of them. Period.

"I don't think I'm ever going to get over this," Sam finally said in a low voice to keep from disturbing Dean. Not for the first time, he felt weak and embarrassed, but John never once criticized him for it.

"You haven't had any real closure," he replied gently. "That makes it difficult. I can imagine Jacob and Elizabeth are intentionally biding their time, putting off their escape to prolong the suspense. They probably know what it's doing to you, cause it's a normal response. You don't have anything to be ashamed of."

So he kept saying, but that didn't make it any easier to believe. Sam had been a prisoner for nearly three days, and while he wasn't physically tortured or anything, he didn't come out of the ordeal unmarked. And if anything distressed him more than his goodbye to Jess, it was the explanation he owed his family.

 _The three of them—John, Sam and Dean—had stood by themselves outside the Roadhouse, far from prying ears. It wasn't that they distrusted the Harvelles or Ash, and certainly not Bobby, who was like a second father to the boys, but it was difficult enough for Sam to tell Dean, and he just couldn't bear for anyone else to know._

 _Leaning his back against the side of John's 1986 Sierra Grande, Sam wrapped his arms around himself and stared at his feet. Where to begin? There was so much to say, but it all tasted bitter. "Dad, I… I think there's something wrong with me."_

 _Dean bristled. "Sammy—"_

 _But John gripped his arm, cutting him off. "Let him finish, Dean."_

 _Slowly, Sam pulled back his left sleeve and peeled away the wide bandage covering his wrist. John had already seen the tattoo, but it was Dean's first glimpse, and he scowled at the sight. On the last day of Sam's captivity, early in the morning, the Stynes basically branded him with their family crest—a two-headed bird with outstretched wings, sharp talons, and a shield in the foreground. It was their way of welcoming him into their family._

" _At first, the Stynes were going to sacrifice me for their ritual, just like they planned. But when we arrived at their estate, there was a demon waiting for us. Monroe called him Hell's finest general. Azazel. He was possessing Eldon Styne's dead body, and even though his eyes had been removed, the empty sockets were glowing with a pale yellow light. I've never seen anything like it."_

 _Demons were known to have black eyes, and occasionally red, depending on their position. According to rumor, the most powerful demons might have white eyes, but no one could confirm that. Yellow eyes? John and Dean glanced at each other in concern._

" _Azazel knew me, dad. He said we met when I was a baby." Sam watched for his father's reaction, and sure enough, John clenched his jaw. "He told Monroe, Jacob and Elizabeth that I'm too tainted to sacrifice. He said I'm worth more to them alive than dead, because if I play my part, I'll help trigger some kind of calamity, and the Stynes always profit from chaos."_

 _Dean shook his head vehemently, refusing to believe any of it. "Demons lie, Sammy."_

" _I know, but they made Elizabeth read my palm, and whatever she saw literally made her throw up! She called me the Holy Grail! Azazel said he wasn't going to let them kill me, but would consider it a favor if they..." He trailed off, face flushing._

" _If they adopted you," John wrapped up. Sam nodded weakly, and Dean recoiled, looking sick. Jacob told him they were going to keep Sam as a souvenir; he never said anything about adopting him. The idea was absurd, but the threat was very real. John sighed, wiping his mouth. "Okay, why would this Azazel entrust you to the Stynes? Especially knowing how important legacies are to them? Why didn't he just claim you for himself?"_

" _Because he still has a year left of vacation," Sam said despondently. "And he called Monroe uniquely qualified to prepare me for whatever he has planned."_

" _Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore," Dean snapped angrily. "Monroe is dead, and I'm not going to let anything happen to you!"_

" _Do you think…?" Sam felt the tears welling up. "Do you think this demon killed mom? Did she die because of me?"_

" _No!" Dean was adamant, even as he looked at John for support. But John was not convinced, and his expression was not comforting._

" _Sammy," he finally said. "I want you to listen to me right now." Sam nodded obediently, turning his head away in shame. He half expected an admonishment for not looking at John when he spoke, but instead, his father gently pulled him into an embrace. "When your mother died, you were six months old. It wasn't your fault. None of this was your fault. You're a good person, and you don't deserve this crap. All right?"_

" _Yes sir."_

" _Good. Now that we have the demon's name, we're gonna find him, and we're gonna kill him, and whatever he has planned for you will die with him. I promise."_

Azazel's year of vacation was over, and so far, they were no closer to finding him then they had ever been. He was remarkably elusive—perhaps in hibernation. But now, as Sam sat across from his father in that gloomy motel room, quietly assessing his face, he thought he saw hints of a dilemma. "Dad, what is it?"

John stared down at his journal, tired and melancholy. Between the Stynes, the demon, and all their other hunts, he had a lot on his mind, and Sam often wondered how he coped so well with such responsibilities. He was by no means perfect, but he did his best, and in hindsight, Sam knew his childhood could have been a hell of a lot worse.

"Dad?" he asked again, a little more urgently. John was too straightforward and impatient for this kind of hesitation. Unless it was something big.

After a beat, he reached his decision and nodded, meeting Sam's gaze resolutely. "I'm sorry, kiddo. There's something I have to do, and you're not gonna like it."

Sam bit his lip, wondering if he should wake Dean. Since he had resigned himself to the family business, he and his father didn't argue half as much as they used to, but sometimes their tempers still clashed. John would always be a marine who valued a clear chain of command, and Sam would always be a strategist who valued collaboration. They loved each other, and they trusted each other, but that didn't mean they always worked well together.

"What is it?"

"A lead… Maybe. I'll have to swing by Arizona to be sure."

Sam scoffed, fear and excitement at war within him. A lead meant danger, but it also meant progress, and they could definitely use some progress right about now—which of course brought up John's use of pronouns. "Don't you mean we'll have to swing by Arizona?" John didn't blink, and Sam grew tense. "Arizona's over fifteen hundred miles away. You can't just leave us behind."

"It might not be anything to worry about. I'm gonna make a few inquiries; that's all. There's really no need for the two of you to come."

It took every ounce of Sam's discipline to curb his frustration. "Sounds like there's no need for us not to come." He tried to keep his voice steady, but with little success. If John wanted to go alone, he must have a reason for it, and the obvious ones were the most upsetting. He could be trying to keep them out of harm's way so he could be more reckless, or because he feared what Azazel might do if he found Sam. In either case, he was taking an unnecessary risk, refusing backup. "Dad, please…"

But John had that stubborn look in his eyes. "I knew you weren't going to like it. Sam, I need you to trust me. I'm only gonna be gone a few days, and it's strictly reconnaissance. Stay here with Dean. Keep your heads down, and try to get some rest."

The very suggestion made Sam shift uneasily. He wasn't sleeping well, and they all knew it. With enough coffee, he could handle his fatigue, for now anyway. It wasn't a permanent solution. But he couldn't bear to keep watching Elizabeth murder Jessica. It might only be a nightmare, but each time, it felt more real. "Dad…"

What was he supposed to say? That he was scared? That he wasn't ready for John's neglect? Could it even be considered neglect when Sam was twenty-two years old? What did it matter? He couldn't change the old man's mind, and it would be too exhausting to try. He should have known John's sheltering presence wouldn't last forever.

Of course, that's why he had Dean. Sam glanced over at his brother—still sprawled out on the bed—and sulked. Because it didn't matter how profound a bond they shared. No son ever wanted someone else to replace his father. It wasn't fair to Sam, and it wasn't fair to Dean.

"Just hold onto the hex bag I gave you," John suggested, somewhat contritely. "It will keep you hidden from the Stynes."

"Yes sir."

They sat in silence for quite a long time, John returning to his journal while Sam stared at a black-and-white photograph of historic Chicago that decorated the wall. He wondered why this was happening to him, and how long it would take for him to finally recover.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please review!**_


	2. Prison

_**Author's Note:**_ _I wasn't sure whether to make this one or two chapters, but decided to get it out of the way as quickly as possible. It's still exposition, but important exposition! You'll have to let me know if you prefer long or short chapters. :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women)**

Elizabeth Styne did not care for prison. She did not care for the lack of privacy, or the hideous fashion, or the appalling food—not to mention the wretched company. Most of her fellow inmates were profane, uneducated whores who conversed in some crude language she did not care to learn. It was a cesspool. Never in a million years did she ever imagine finding herself in such a miserable place.

Of course, she could leave at any time. In fact, upon her arrest, she blatantly told Special Agent Victor Henriksen that she wouldn't stick around for very long. She was psychic, and with her budding telekinesis, she could take control of her own destiny whenever she desired. Thomas was waiting for her—he wrote frequent letters urging her to join him—and the temptation was strong. She loved him so much.

But she had to be careful. Arthur Fontaine, the Styne family's lawyer and young Cyrus' temporary guardian, warned her against acting rashly. Apparently, the FBI's investigation drew more attention than she realized, and word had come from her relatives in Europe to keep a low profile or face their displeasure. She knew they wouldn't stand for her incarceration indefinitely—she was Elizabeth Styne, after all—but they had to wait for some of the dust to settle. They did so prize their secrecy, and she'd be a fool to cross them.

If they ever learned of her unsanctioned Q&As with Henriksen, they'd be furious. She shared all kinds of interesting tidbits with the man—some true, some exaggerated, and some decidedly misleading—mostly to spite her uncle. Monroe might be dead, but his memory would always disgust her. She hated him with every fiber of her soul.

Henriksen, on the other hand, was a good sport. He came to visit Elizabeth on multiple occasions, fascinated by the supernatural, and while he showed the proper respect for her abilities, he somehow managed to remain cavalier. It must be his pride trying to save face. So amusing. She honestly wasn't sure how she would have coped without his presence interrupting the monotony of prison life.

Inevitably, their little chats would turn to the Winchesters. Hunters. Legacies. Heroes. As an officer of the law, Henriksen dedicated himself to the service of his country. Saving people. Busting criminals. Despite his tough-guy attitude, he was definitely a white hat, so he could appreciate people who took it upon themselves to confront real, living, breathing monsters.

The Winchesters, however, were a special breed. Particularly Sam. Elizabeth didn't tell Henriksen how she read the poor kid's palm to confirm his value—only to discover that he belonged to the legendary Lucifer and mustn't be wasted—but she did drop hints. _"Sammy's precious… You should keep an eye on him… Before something far more sinister than my uncle snatches him up…"_

" _Yeah, well, he hasn't exactly thanked us for our protection."_

" _He_ _can't even fathom the evil that's stalking him—not yet, anyway. He thinks his family can protect him because they always have, but they're in over their heads. And if Sammy's compromised, you won't like the consequences."_

She remained deliberately vague, and thanks to her fortune-telling gig up in Lily Dale, it was all too easy steering the conversation. She had plenty of practice. As much as her ambiguity frustrated Henriksen, it also tantalized him, and despite his best efforts, Elizabeth could see his interest in the Winchesters continue to grow.

Good. As soon as her family came to release her from this lengthy time out, she would find a way to use Henriksen to track her quarry down. She couldn't do it on her own; somehow, the Winchesters were concealing themselves. She saw nothing when she sought them in her trances. But they couldn't hide forever, and when she regained her freedom, she would need some kind of tribute to appease the Europeans. What better offering than a couple of legacies and the property of Lucifer?

She just had to be patient. Soon this would all be over, and she would be back in Thomas' embrace. She would drink from the elixir of life, and they would spend eternity together. With such a promising future on the horizon, what were a few lonely months in jail? She could afford to wait.

 **SPN**

 **(U.S. Penitentiary in Florence, Colorado … Tuesday, October 20, 2005)**

For most people, life inside a federal super-max prison would be insufferable. Jacob Styne was kept in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours a day. His cell was twelve feet long by seven feet wide—smaller than his closet back home—with a thin mattress on a concrete slab, a single-unit sink and toilet, and an automated shower. His meals arrived through a slot in the metal door, and his only window was a long notch, four inches wide, that showcased nothing but sky.

Such isolation could drive men over the edge, and they deserved it, too. Jacob might not communicate with the other prisoners, but he knew all about them. The worst of the worse. Murderers. Terrorists. Depraved psychopaths who gave demons a good name. According to the prosecution, the Stynes were no different, but what did they know about class or nobility? Jacob felt like a prince among vermin.

But he would not allow these conditions to break him. He was too strong for that—too good for that. Instead, he made the most of it. He mourned his family for weeks—far longer than necessary. Then he began his meditations, not only to center himself, but also to discipline himself. He would avenge his father, his brother, and all their cousins, but he would be smart about it. Simply killing the Winchesters, even slowly, would not do the Stynes justice. Jacob wanted them to suffer—physically, yes, but also emotionally. He could think of a dozen ways to torment Sam without actually harming him, and he would explore each one in depth before starting the torture—and he would do the same to John and Dean.

But he had to be calm, and he had to be sharp. He was only in prison because he underestimated Dean. The young hunter fought like a Spartan, and against all odds, he beat Jacob fairly. It was impressive, but would not happen again. If Jacob had to train and exercise like an Olympic athlete, so be it. He would not be humiliated again.

Focused, confident, and unrelenting, Jacob began to flourish where others withered. His prison became his sanctuary, and before long, he forgot why such places were so reviled. He would have lost track of time if it weren't for the letters he regularly received from his lawyer, Arthur Fontaine, who assured him that his relatives in Europe were not forsaking him. They had a plan, but he would have to trust them. It might take awhile, but it would all be worth it in the end. That was fine. He was in no rush.

It was the middle of the afternoon when someone knocked on his metal door, distracting him from a record series of one-handed push ups. He dropped to his knees, refusing to grumble, and glanced up to see the slot slide open. On the other side, two eyes peered in—two yellow eyes. Demonic and familiar—when Jacob first encountered them, they were emanating from the empty sockets on Eldon's dead face.

"Azazel," he said, recognizing them anywhere. The notorious general might be hijacking a prison guard this time around, but Jacob wasn't so easily deceived—which brought up several interesting questions. What did the bastard want? To kill Jacob? He certainly had the advantage. Or to render aid? Apparently, he and Monroe were once old friends. Well, Jacob knew better than to ask a demon for help, so he found himself inquiring, "How was your vacation?"

Azazel beamed. "How nice of you to ask. It was swell. I'm all relaxed, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to pick up where I left off, which leads me to wonder what your family did with my favorite little boy. I can't seem to locate him, and to be honest, I find that disconcerting."

"Oh, like you don't know." Jacob climbed to his feet and wiped sweat from his brow. "He's back with his daddy, I'd imagine. Why else would I be in this lovely cell?" It was something of a shock to hear himself speak in full sentences, and despite his the nature of his guest, Jacob appreciated the company. It had been too long, and it made him wonder what else he'd been missing. Human interaction. Human contact. He envisioned his fingers wrapping around Sam's neck, and suddenly realized the isolation was affecting him more than he cared to admit. "Fair warning, boss. After what those hunters did to my family, I'm not inclined to be gentle with them. Any of them."

"Just as long as we're clear," Azazel said darkly. "Sam Winchester is not to be damaged beyond repair. I have plans for him."

Jacob shook his head. "And why should your plans take priority over mine?"

"Cause I have seniority." He was so matter-of-fact about it that Jacob had to sneer. "I'm not trying to spite you, and this doesn't have to be a bad thing. Sam is destined for greatness, but we both know how recalcitrant he's gonna be. That's what makes it so much fun. Can you think of anything better than bending someone to your will? It's intoxicating. And with a boy like Sam… Trust me, Jacob. You'll love it."

"I don't want gratification. I want vengeance."

Azazel sighed, clucking his tongue in disappointment. "It's like they don't teach anything in school these days. Haven't you ever heard of a fate worse than death? You can have your vengeance. You can even have a good time. You can have whatever the hell you want, but at the end of the day, Sam better be intact, or you'll be answering to me. And you don't want that, buddy, I guarantee it. Don't make me your enemy."

A fate worse than death? Well, Jacob couldn't deny it had a nice ring to it. And it wasn't like Sam was responsible for Monroe, Eldon or any of the others. No. John and Dean were. "Tell you what," he said after a moment's consideration. "I'll play along. But I want your word that I get to kill the rest of them."

"Suit yourself," Azazel said. "Just remember what I told your father. When you finally put the bastards out of their misery, make sure Sammy has a front-row seat. I want him to watch."

Jacob smirked. Maybe the two of them really could learn to work together.

 **SPN**

 **(Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women … Wednesday, October 21, 2005)**

Elizabeth was curled up on her bed, memorizing one of Thomas' letters, when the premonition struck. As a fortune-teller, she was accustomed to the intensity of her trances, but she always beckoned them. They never took her by surprise. Not unless someone was trying to show her something unannounced. Someone powerful and intimate. Like the husband from her past life. Victor Frankenstein.

Groaning, she rolled onto her side and cringed. Premonitions often came with painful migraines, and this one might incapacitate her. God. If her roommate on the top bunk happened to notice, she'd be screwed, so she pressed her hands against her mouth and fought to keep quiet.

Frankenstein. He was the bane of her existence. She hated him more than she hated Monroe, which was really saying something. What could he possibly want after all these years? Surely her European relatives knew better than to send him after her—she was liable to kill him. That is, if she could manage it. She might no longer be a damsel in distress, but that didn't make her his equal, especially if he could reach inside her head like this.

The premonition burgeoned, and suddenly she beheld a horrific scene. Thomas was on his hands and knees, chained down to a massive fire pit. Towering over him was Earl Styne, Elizabeth's cousin, as well as her mother, Caroline Styne, and the man himself. Victor Frankenstein.

Aside from a stylish new suit, he hadn't changed. In his mid-thirties, he stood just under six feet tall, reeking of excellence and majesty—he was always such an aristocrat. His hair fell to his shoulders in fancy golden curls, and a goatee gave his face distinction. Many would call him handsome, especially compared to Thomas, who looked more like a decrepit zombie, but to Elizabeth, he was a demon disguised as an angel, and he made her sick.

"Dr. Benton," he said with that same Swiss accent. "I almost feared this day would never come. You're a hard man to track down, but the fact is, no one can hide forever. Not from me."

"Frankenstein…" From his position on the ground, Thomas glowered at his rival. "Aren't you supposed to be a green-skinned behemoth with bolts on the sides of your neck?"

His jibe didn't faze the man, who was hardly concerned with misconceptions about Mary Shelley's creature. "As insolent as ever, I see. Do you honestly think you deserve Elizabeth, with a mouth like that? And don't even get me started on your face."

"I don't deserve her. But I love her, which is more than you can say. You only love yourself."

"Love?" Frankenstein scoffed. "Elizabeth has spent the past year rotting in jail because of your allegiance to John Winchester. You think she still loves you?"

"With all her heart." Thomas managed to chuckle, if only to vex the Stynes. "It must drive you mad, knowing she'd choose an offensive cur like me over a charming lad like you. But then again, there's more to a man than his fashion, and you, sir, are shamefully inadequate."

Frankenstein didn't blink, but there was malice in his voice. "I'm going to enjoy this." With a little nod, he signaled for Earl to begin dousing Thomas with oil from several ancient alabaster jars. "Have you ever heard of holy fire, Doc Benton? I doubt it can kill you, but with the right incantation, I'm sure it will put you out of commission for a very long time. In case you weren't aware, magic always trumps science."

Alarm swept over Thomas. "She'll never forgive you."

"We both know that. I'm more concerned about Jacob forgiving me. After all, you helped kill his immediate family. I'm sure he'd want to be here for this, but alas, I'm out of patience, and your time is up."

"No…" Thomas began struggling with his chains, to no avail. They rattled loudly as he pulled and wrenched against them, which only encouraged Earl to splash more oil over his body. He was soaked. "NO! I'LL KILL YOU FOR THIS!"

"You'll have to excuse me if I find that hard to believe." Frankenstein struck a match and began reciting a spell in Latin. Thomas screamed at him, but was helpless to fight back. A moment later, the match fell into the fire pit, and Thomas was engulfed by flames.

"NNNOOOOOO!"

Elizabeth shrieked, breaking from her trance with a violent jolt. She had fallen from her bed, and was now writhing on the floor as if struck by a seizure. Her roommate stared down at her from the top bunk with a wary countenance—she might prey on the weak, but not in the middle of a fit. Guards were already scrambling to their cell, quick to assess the situation.

"Styne?"

"She's gonna need medical attention!"

"NO!"

What had she been waiting for? Her family's permission to escape from this hellhole? How could she be so naïve? Of course they would take advantage of her confinement to hunt down the only man she ever loved. Thomas… It was too late to save him. Frankenstein wouldn't risk planting such a vision in her mind if there was any chance of preventing the atrocity. By now, Thomas would be nothing but a living pile of ash, and it would take him decades to regenerate—if he even could.

It wasn't fair. She never got the chance to look him in the eye, to tell him how much she loved him, despite his age and battle scars. She never got the chance to say goodbye. Frankenstein took that from her. Again.

An eruption of anger, fear and despair blasted outward. It struck the guards, knocking them unconscious while cracking the walls. The entire block began to shake and Elizabeth was drawn upright by her own magical energy, her prison clothes and golden hair billowing in an unearthly wind.

"No more," she muttered savagely. "No more."

 **SPN**

 **(U.S. Penitentiary in Florence, Colorado … Wednesday, October 21, 2005)**

Jacob was sitting on his fixed concrete stool, fantasizing about the Winchesters, when suddenly the door to his cell flew opened. Not just the slot, but the actual door. He swung his head around in fascination as two sentries dragged in a motionless prisoner. Their eyes were vacant and their expressions blank—someone must have brainwashed them.

Sure enough, as Jacob watched them dump their burden on the bed, a tall, thin man entered behind them. William Styne—Jacob's uncle, and Elizabeth's father. He was built like a stick, but he was a brilliant spell-caster, and Jacob was pleased to see him. "You came."

"Naturally." They hugged, and after a year in isolation, Jacob found the touch of another person overwhelming. He craved more of it, but restrained himself.

"Who is this?" he asked instead, glancing at the other prisoner.

"Your substitute," William said. They weren't identical, but they were practically the same size and shape. They both had blonde hair and messy beards. They both wore the same clothes. Honestly, who would bother telling them apart? "We took the liberty of replacing all your personal information, your health records, your fingerprints, your mug shot—everything they have in your file—with his. As far as the authorities are concerned, this man is officially Jacob Styne. Which means no one will notice you're missing."

Laughter may have been appropriate, but Jacob was out of practice. He wanted to express his relief, gratitude, and excitement, but words failed him. It was all happening too fast, and he would need an adjustment period. "I can't thank you enough for this."

William shrugged it off. "Don't trouble yourself, Jacob. That's what family's for."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I couldn't resist writing in Victor Frankenstein. I'm sorry, but as much as I enjoyed the book, I hated the character, so if I can make him a bad guy, I'm doing it!_

 _I wasn't sure how to describe his appearance, so I went to Google for inspiration and stumbled upon the 1994 film adaptation. Never seen it. No idea if it's any good. But that's kind of the 'look' I was going for with Frankenstein._

 _ **Please review!**_


	3. Followed

_**Author's Note:**_ _Thanks for your patience! I'm actually updating this one as I write it, so I won't be as quick as I was with 'Endangered.' Sorry about that. But here's another long chapter, and it's got some 'protective Dean' in it, so enjoy!_

 **SPN**

 **(Chicago, Illinois … Thursday, October 22, 2005)**

In a city like Chicago, Sam had his pick of cafés and coffee shops, but he chose the one closest to the motel where his brother was currently working on the Impala. Dean took excellent care of his beloved vehicle and enjoyed the labor—it kept his mind off their father's absence. Sam offered to help, as always, but Dean had his own way of doing things, and when he got in his zone, it was better just to leave him alone. Therefore, Sam took refuge in the corner booth of a local indie joint with a large cup of coffee and a book he had seen on the Best Sellers List.

Before long, he was so engrossed that he almost missed his brother storming in to get him. Something had Dean agitated, and he all but yanked Sam from his seat with an angry scowl. "We need to leave. Now." There was no mistaking his urgency; their father had ordered them to stay put, but Dean was ready to bolt.

"What? Why?" Sam had no problem following his brother's lead, but the more he knew of the situation, the more prepared he'd feel. Dean waited until they were outside, where he took in their surroundings as inconspicuously as possible, before slipping Sam a small gadget.

"That's a tracking device," he whispered as they crossed the distance to the motel. Sam tensed, eyes widening. "I'm not even sure it's legal, but it was planted on the car, and I almost didn't see it. Don't even want to think about how long it's been there."

If they were lucky, it belonged to the feds—otherwise they had Stynes on their trail. Who else had the means or inclination to utilize such technology? Either way, they needed to make themselves scarce. Sam never got a chance to know Special Agent Henriksen, not personally, but he could live with that. The man struck him as an overzealous dick.

"Where do you think we should go?" he asked once they were back in their room, packing their bags while keeping their eyes out for other suspicious objects—bugs, wires, cameras… They knew what to look for, now that the issue had caught their attention, and fortunately, it seemed the tracking device was the extent of it.

"One step at a time, Sammy." Knowing Dean, he would toss their bags in the Impala, ditch the tracker, and drive in a random direction for the next few hours. Once they were in the clear, they would figure out the best way to inform John, but first they had to focus on covering their tracks. Whoever or whatever was following them might be close.

"I'll check us out," Sam offered, heading for the door, but Dean cut him off, shaking his head.

"We paid in cash, so don't bother. Leave the keys on the table. I want the son of a bitch to think we're still here for as long as possible."

"Right." Sam nodded, noting his brother's protective demeanor. Dean wasn't going to let him out of his sight anytime soon. Terrific. Now he had a bodyguard. "You ready?"

"Yeah." They didn't have much to begin with, and they traveled light. Grabbing their stuff, they hastened out to the Impala, casting their eyes around for one last glimpse of anything peculiar, and then they were in the car, pulling away from the parking lot. Dean drove cautiously, keeping a low profile while watching for stalkers, and they didn't speak for a good fifty minutes as he concentrated. Then he regarded Sam in concern. "You all right?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" After all, it wasn't like they'd been ambushed. They weren't retreating from a fight.

"You never wanted to live on the road," Dean quietly observed. "But living on the run? That's gotta be worse."

Sam ducked his head. Dean wasn't prone to talk about his feelings, which meant that Sam's anxiety must be showing. And it was true—he barely considered this type of existence to be living at all. He hated it. But there was no point in complaining about it, so he said, "If they can find us in Chicago, they can find Jessica at the Roadhouse."

Dean took the bait and dropped the subject. "I'll get a burner phone when we stop and let the Harvelles know. Most of their regulars are hunters, so at least they're not easy prey."

"Thank you," Sam said, staring out the window. He would give anything for this to all be over.

 **SPN**

Special Agent Nathan Findley loved his job. He loved the adventure, the challenges, the traveling—everything. Mostly, he loved cleaning up the streets by removing hardened criminals from society. It never got old, and he couldn't begin to imagine a different life for himself. He was perfect for it.

Needless to say, he wasn't pleased when his supervisor, Special Agent Victor Henriksen, interrupted his daily jog with an unexpected phone call. Running in place beneath a willow tree in a lonely park, he listened to the news with a placid expression. "There was a jailbreak in Louisiana yesterday. Some kind of freak earthquake or something. Elizabeth Styne and four other inmates are gone."

Freak earthquake? Not likely if it involved Elizabeth Styne. He still remembered how she stormed the police department in Shreveport thirteen months ago. They didn't talk about it, but she definitely used some major _Matilda_ mind powers during her violent foray. It was the most disturbing experience of Findley's career, and a part of him always knew this day would come. What prison could hold such a woman?

"Strange timing," he said. "Last I checked, the boys are still in Chicago, but their dad's heading southwest. Just when they think it's safe to split up…"

Findley had been shadowing the Winchesters since Sam and Dean fled federal custody last year. At first, he thought it was simply to protect them and ensure their presence at the two trials. But then, it turned out their testimonies weren't necessary to convict Elizabeth or her cousin, Jacob. The FBI had more than enough evidence at their disposal, and Henriksen was intrigued by the strange little family. He didn't want Findley blowing his cover until they learned more.

Of course, it wasn't an easy assignment. The Winchesters were smart, dangerous, and paranoid, forcing Findley to rely on drastic measures that may or may not violate their fourth amendment rights. But hey, it was Henriksen calling the shots, and considering the threat the Stynes still posed, following the rules might prove detrimental. Besides, they weren't trying to prosecute the Winchesters. They were trying to help them.

Truth was, a year spent adapting to the supernatural left Findley a little more flexible when it came to the law. Dean had tried convincing the feds that his brother had been held hostage by the Stynes so they could exploit some special skills that John acquired during Vietnam—God only knew what for… It sounded rational, but given everything he knew now, Findley was more prone to believe Elizabeth, who maintained that her family's interest was in the Winchesters' pedigree, not their military training. And apparently, they weren't the only villains with an eye on the youngest.

Naturally, if there were other magical menaces at large in the world, and if they were on par with the Stynes, then Findley and Henriksen both thought they should know about it. The Winchesters, and Sam in particular, were their best leads, so if they weren't going to cooperate with the federal agents, then certain lines had to be crossed. They weren't given a choice—and the law didn't take the supernatural into account! At least, that's how Findley justified it.

Poor Sam. One thing he knew for certain was the kid loathed his father's way of life. Back at the hospital in Shreveport, he said something about wanting out, and Stanford would have been the perfect avenue were it not for Jacob's interference.

"I think it's time for a face-to-face," Henriksen said at last, interrupting Findley's thoughts. "I need you to pick up the girlfriend and meet Reidy in Omaha. Maybe she can persuade the boys to trust us."

"Yes sir. What about you?"

"I'm flying out to Colorado. It's been awhile since I last spoke with Jacob, and he might have some idea where to find his cousin."

"You think he'll tell you?"

"Probably not, but it never hurts to ask."

 **SPN**

 **(Nebraska** **… Thursday, October 22, 2005)**

"That's it," Jo Harvelle coached as she and Jessica Moore circled around each other. For several months now, they'd been spending their free time in the backyard behind the Roadhouse, honing their self-defense techniques. Just because they were 'as pretty as ballerinas,' as one hunter mistakenly called them, didn't mean they had to be helpless—and Heaven knows ballerinas aren't fragile.

When Jessica first moved in over a year ago, Jo honestly wasn't sure what to make of her. They were both young blonde females, but other than that, they had nothing in common. Jo was a small-town aspiring hunter with a knife collection. Jessica was a sophisticated city girl who went to Stanford. Polar opposites. But now they were roommates, and since Jessica had been kidnapped by a bunch of a violent thugs, she had a strong appreciation for Jo's many talents.

She was a quick study, too. It didn't take long for their sparring sessions to progress from basic drills to faster, fancier combinations. She still wasn't Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but if push came to shove, Jessica would definitely catch an aggressor off guard, and Jo was very proud of that. They took another fifteen minutes to practice, and then stopped to drink some water.

"So when do I earn my stripes?" Jessica asked, slightly out of breath.

Jo cocked her head. "What do you mean?"

Their gazes met, and Jo saw resolution in her friend's eyes. "You know I'm not oblivious, right? I can tell when you, your mom, and Ash are tiptoeing around me. And your dad's hunting buddies? They only think they're being subtle. So what's the big secret? I want in."

It would be hypocritical not to answer, and Jo always told herself that if Jessica were to ask directly—like this—then she wouldn't coddle her. After all, she deserved the truth, didn't she? Nevertheless, Jo hesitated, wondering what Sam and Dean would say. "Look, it's scary business. I'm not going to lie to you, but if you're gonna freak out, it's better that you don't know."

"I'm not going to freak out," Jessica assured her. "I… I haven't told you this, but when those two scumbags had me locked up, they said things. They talked about concealment spells and harvesting limbs. And then, when Jacob Styne's trial was in the news, I read all about the laboratory they found in the family's basement. No one could tell if they were mad scientists or crazy occultists, but either way, they're obviously evil. And I've been asking myself every day since my escape… what could they possibly want with Sam? There's more to the story, I just know it, and I'm sick of the uncertainty. My imagination's been running wild, and whatever it is, it can't be worse than some of the things I've considered…"

Jo smiled faintly. "Actually, it can."

But there wasn't time to elaborate. Jo's mother, Ellen Harvelle, suddenly emerged from the back door. "Jessica? Come on inside, sweetie. There's someone here to see you." She sounded cross, and her jaw was set grimly, so whoever their visitor was, he or she could not be welcome. Jo and Jessica exchanged nervous glances before they dutifully obeyed.

When they reached the main room in the Roadhouse, they found Ash perched warily on top of the pool table, staring at a large man in a black business suit. Jo didn't recognize him, but if she had to guess, he was probably an athlete who kept in excellent shape as he approached middle age. She might be too young for him, but still, with his muscular features, he definitely caught her attention. He might even be a match for Dean. No wonder Ellen disliked him.

"Jessica," he said gently enough, as if speaking to a frightened child. "My name's Special Agent Nathan Findley. I'm with the FBI." He flashed his badge and Jo grimaced. She had no reason to doubt his claim—her mom would have made their computer genius authenticate the badge before calling them inside. Unfortunately, Jessica was under the impression that Ellen and Ash were both U.S. Marshals, that the Roadhouse was a safe house, and that she was in Witness Protection. This guy could ruin everything.

"How's Sam?" Jessica asked, assuming they'd been together. And why wouldn't she? That's what she'd been told.

Findley sighed, appearing almost apologetic. "Actually, that's why I'm here. I'm afraid your boyfriend hasn't been completely honest with you, and we need to talk."

 **SPN**

 **(Cedar Rapids, Iowa** **… Thursday, October 22, 2005)**

After four hours on the road, they stopped to stretch their legs and eat some grub. As promised, Dean picked up three new burner phones and dialed Jo's number from memory. The girl had spunk, and he did admire her, but she wasn't quite drinking age yet, and he figured the more involved she felt, the less likely she'd be to run off on her own. She wanted to hunt, and he knew exactly where she was coming from.

Sitting across from his brother at a sandwich joint, Dean tried to be patient as the phone rang. Jo was usually quick to respond, which made him wonder about the hold-up. Finding a tracking device on the Impala already had him on edge, and he didn't appreciate the delay.

But then the call connected, and Dean said, "Hey Jo. It's me."

"Hi sweetie!" she rapidly replied. "Can we talk later? This isn't the best time."

Sweetie? That's a first. Dean must have made a face, because Sam lowered his sandwich and frowned at him. "Jo? What's going on?"

"Okay, okay! Just… Just give me a sec, alright?" Jo began speaking to someone on her end, but Dean could still make out her words. "Look, I have to take this. It's Gordon, and he says it's urgent."

She was speaking code, that much Dean could tell. He groaned; this really wasn't shaping out to be his day. If Jo or any of the others needed help, he was still several hours from Nebraska. Not good. "You better be okay, or I just might lose it."

"Gordon, calm down!" After a few more seconds, Dean heard a door slam shut, and then Jo said in a frantic whisper, "Oh my God, Dean. There's an actual, legitimate FBI agent here talking to Jessica! Do you have any idea how much trouble we're in? Impersonating U.S. Marshals has to be a felony, right?"

Son of a bitch. Where was John when they needed him? Dean steeled himself for a stressful conversation. "Yeah, but don't worry. I doubt he's there for you. What's his name?"

"Nathan Findley."

Findley? Dean knew the name. Findley was part of Henriksen's team; he was the agent who drove Sam from the Stynes' house to the hospital back in Shreveport, and probably would have been their chaperone if they hadn't bailed on him. For a fed, he seemed remarkably sympathetic, and Dean definitely preferred him over Henriksen. "Let me talk to him."

"What? Really?"

Dean didn't have to hear the surprise in her voice, or see the alarm in Sam's eyes, to realize it was a bad idea. His dad would never approve. But then again, his dad wasn't there, and for once in his life, Dean had to make the decisions. And he would rather have the FBI focused on him than the Harvelles. "Now, Jo."

"Okay… If you insist." She scurried back the way she came, and Dean heard her say, "Agent Findley? I just received another call, and this one's for you."

She passed along the phone, and seconds later, a stern man said, "This is Special Agent Nathan Findley."

Dean didn't recognize his voice, but then again, they only met briefly, and that was over a year ago. "How's it going, Agent Findley? This is Dean Winchester."

Sam's shoulders sagged, and he shook his head in disbelief.

"Dean…" Findley's voice softened. "It's good to hear from you, son."

"I'm not your son," Dean stiffly replied. "Why do people think that's ever appropriate?" He didn't wait for an answer, but jumped to a more pressing concern. "Are you the bastard who left a tracking device on my car? Cause I don't like having strangers fondle my baby."

"Right…" Findley didn't bother to hide his guilt. "Sorry about that. When did you find it?"

"Better question," Dean said. "When did you find us?"

"Honestly? We never lost you."

Dean blinked, wondering if he heard correctly. Was that… was that even possible? It would mean the FBI had been following them this whole time, without anyone noticing. Yeah right. Like John would ever allow that to happen. He was too vigilant. It didn't make any sense. "You expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth, Dean. You're not the only one with extensive training, and I just happen to have better resources."

Dean could feel his patience wearing thin. "No. Cause the last time I checked, you need a warrant for tracking devices, and if you have a warrant, why haven't you arrested us yet?" A beat. The silence was heavy, and Dean scoffed. "You don't have a warrant, do you?"

"We don't want to arrest you, Dean," Findley said. "Listen, Jessica's asking if she can talk to Sam. I'm willing to put her on speaker if you're game."

Dean glanced at his little brother, who could only hear their side of the conversation, but was still hanging onto every word. Better not. If it was a bad idea talking to Findley, it'd be an even worse idea letting Sam talk to Jess—at least under these conditions. "Sorry. Sam's with our dad, halfway to California by now."

"And they just left you behind?" Findley wasn't buying it.

"I don't think that's any of your damn business."

"Well, the timing couldn't be worse. You were right about Elizabeth Styne. I don't know if you've heard or not, but she escaped from prison yesterday."

Dean's stomach clenched as he pictured the crazy, lovesick bitch who started this whole fiasco. She actually shot him in the freaking shoulder! He did not anticipate crossing paths with her again, but given the Winchesters' luck, it was bound to happen sooner or later. On the bright side, with their hex bags protecting them, she wouldn't know where to find them. Thank God for small favors. "What about Jacob?"

Sam caught his breath at the mention of his abductor. He didn't like to dwell on that horrific weekend, and he rarely spoke of it, but Dean knew Jacob had been cruel to him. He still wore a wide leather band on his left wrist to cover the tattoo, which took 'permanent' to a whole new level. The ink had soot from demon smoke in it, and even Bobby agreed it wasn't removable.

Dean could handle Elizabeth breaking out of jail. She had mixed loyalties, and maybe Doc Benton would encourage her to leave them alone. Jacob, on the other hand… He wouldn't rest until he had payback, and he was a dangerous son of a bitch. It took everything Dean had to fight him, and he wasn't cocky enough to think a rematch would be easy.

"As far as we know," Findley said. "He's still locked up in Florence, Colorado. Agent Henriksen's on his way to confirm that, and maybe get a lead on Elizabeth. We'd like your help on this, Dean, and you have my word, we're not trying to trick you. We're not the bad guys here, and I promise, we're on your side."

"Prove it." Dean had way too much experience dealing with the authorities' B.S.

"How about this?" Findley proposed. "Let's finish this conversation face-to-face out in Omaha, and I won't take up anymore of Ellen Harvelle's time."

In other words, 'Turn yourself in, or she gets arrested.' Crap. And they wondered why Dean was so distrustful.

"You know, you're a real piece of work," he grumbled.

"What will it be, Dean?"

"Fine. I'll be there tomorrow morning." Sam opened his mouth to object, but Dean waved him down. "Just keep in mind, how you feds treat me will heavily influence how my dad treats you. Understand?" It was a warning he knew they'd take seriously, and Findley's hesitation came as no surprise. John Winchester was not someone they wanted to piss off.

"Don't worry," he eventually said. "We're going to figure this out, and it will all be okay."

Dean hoped so. He was already thinking through worst-case scenarios, and they all involved Sam getting hurt. Poor kid had been through enough, and Dean couldn't let anything else happen to him. Not now. Not on his watch.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _How am I doing with all these characters? Give me some feedback! I love hearing from people. :-)_


	4. Déjà Vu

_**Author's Note:**_ _Okay, everyone! Here's the chapter you've all been waiting so patiently for. Have fun!_

 **SPN**

 **(Cedar Rapids, Iowa … Thursday, October 22, 2005)**

"This is a bad idea, Dean," Sam said as they filed into another motel room. The linoleum floor was starting to peel and some of the walls were dotted with stains. As much as he disliked credit card fraud, he had to admit paying in cash had its downsides. The place was disgusting. And Dean wanted him to stay here while he went off to meet with the FBI in Omaha? What was he thinking?

"I don't know what else to do," Dean shot back, dumping his bag on the bed. He turned to face his brother impatiently. "He would have arrested Ellen, and dad's not answering his phone!" It wasn't unusual for John to miss calls, especially when he was hunting, but he assured Sam that his trip to Arizona was strictly reconnaissance. So what was taking him so long to call them back?

"Omaha is another four hours from here," Sam pointed out. "I should come with you." He might not want Dean acting like a bodyguard, but that didn't mean he wanted them to split up. They were stronger and safer together.

"Sammy, we've been over this." They had no reason to believe Findley would hold up his end of the deal, and if he arrested Dean and found a hex bag on him, it would raise a lot of awkward questions. Before he stepped foot in the government office, Dean planned to hide the bag somewhere safe, along with his weapons, so they weren't confiscated. Of course, doing so would be risky. Without the hex bag, Elizabeth might see him in one of her trances, and if she found Dean in Omaha, he wanted to make sure Sam was as far away as possible.

"Leaving me behind won't guarantee my safety," Sam protested, knowing it was a low blow. Dean took his job as Big Brother very seriously, and it might weaken his resolve. "Especially if you leave me on my own."

Much to his consternation, Dean smirked. "Nice try, pal." He pulled a phone from his pocket. "But I have no intention of leaving you alone." He began dialing a number. "Findley's expecting me tomorrow morning, which will give Bobby plenty of time to drive out here."

And they could always count on Bobby. Sam huffed as Dean turned the speaker on, and the old hunter answered after two rings. "Hello?"

"Hey Bobby. It's us."

He grunted. "Yeah, I figured you'd be calling. You see the news?"

"About Elizabeth Styne's jailbreak?" Dean asked. "We got the scoop from FBI Special Agent Nathan Findley. Long story short? He threatened to bust Ellen if I don't turn myself in tomorrow. Dad's gone off the grid, and I don't want Sammy in the line of fire." Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean shushed him with a pointed glare. "Any chance you can make it out to Cedar Rapids? I'd feel better knowing he's got someone watching his back."

"Balls." It was easy to picture Bobby fuming. "I'm right in the middle of hunting a demon."

"Demon?" Sam snapped to attention, thoughts flying to Azazel.

"He's been on the run since I caught his scent last year," Bobby said. "Dean, normally I'd drop everything to help you boys out, you know that, but this demon has vital information, and I can't let it get away when I'm finally this close. I'm sorry, but I can't."

Sam and Dean stared at each other, speechless. It honestly never occurred to either of them that Bobby might be indisposed. He was always so reliable—the one who never placed hunting above the boys' well-being—which left them at a loss. What now?

"Bobby," Dean tried again. "We need help, and dad's not here."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time, and believe me when I say I am helping. Problem is we're fighting on multiple fronts, so as long as you boys have your hex bags, this demon is more of a priority than Elizabeth Styne."

"Why?" Sam asked. "Which demon are you talking about?"

"Nevermind that, kid. You let me take care of it."

Sam tossed up his arms, exasperated. Why did everyone have to treat him like a child? And why were they all leaving him when he still needed them? "You know Dean's not going to bring his hex bag when he meets up with the feds, right? He's worried they'll discover it if they search him, and then they'll suspect he's into the occult. Elizabeth might find him, and he won't let me provide cover."

"That's risky, Dean," Bobby cautioned.

"I know," he stubbornly replied. "Story of my life. But even if they lock me up, I figure the feds will do everything they can to recapture the bitch. They're not gonna hand me over to the Stynes, and they're not gonna kill me, so if worse comes to worst, I can always bust myself out. I've done it before."

"We all have!" Sam reminded him. "So let me go instead. That way, I'm safe in protective custody, and who knows? Maybe they'll let me spend some time with Jess. And it makes more sense to have you on the outside where you're free to get the job done." He was trying so hard to sound reasonable, but Dean wouldn't have it.

"No." He spoke with the same finality that came so often from their father. It made Sam grimace. "I played this game back in Shreveport, and Elizabeth managed to shoot me in the middle of the police department. I was a sitting duck. Now, hopefully a federal office building will have tighter security, but if there's even the slightest possibility she can get to you, I'm not going to allow it."

"Why's it okay to risk your life and not mine?"

"Because I'm the eldest, and I said so!" Dean snapped so fiercely that Sam fell back a step. "Now you're going to stay here, and you're going to keep your head down, or I swear to God, I'll tie you to the bed, and you can wait for Caleb to come get you." Judging from the look in his eyes, Sam could tell Dean meant every word.

"Boys!" Bobby interrupted. "Maybe Sam can do something a little more productive than sit on the sidelines. I think I found someone who might have the skinny on the Men of Letters. His name is Rabbi Isaac Bass, from the Judah Initiative. Basically, they're Jewish rebels who opposed the Nazis back in World War II. Not only are they loosely affiliated with the Men of Letters, but they aren't too keen on the Stynes. You know, since the Stynes helped the Nazis rise to power and all that."

Dean frowned. "Wait, hold on… What are you talking about?"

"I've been trying to learn more about your family's heritage, you idjit. The Men of Letters! I was going to meet Rabbi Bass out in Pennsylvania a few days ago, but then I got sidetracked by this demon. Had to put a few things on the back burner. Sam, why don't you go instead? Then you're safe, doing much-needed research, and everybody's happy."

It would have been an interesting prospect under normal circumstances. Sam loved history, and he couldn't deny he was fascinated by secret organizations, but his brother was gearing up to put his life on the line. He just couldn't look the other way. "Bobby—"

Without warning, the door to their motel room suddenly smashed open. Sam and Dean both turned to see several robust intruders charging in with Micro Uzis. No time to think. Dean shoved Sam behind him and launched at the closest thug. They traded blows, but Sam's attention was quickly drawn away by a freshly-shaven blonde man in a tailored suit. His old captor, Jacob Styne. Crap.

While three of the bastards triple-teamed Dean, Sam scrambled for their weapons bag. How could Jacob be here? Findley assured them he was still in jail. This had to be a nightmare. They were outnumbered, outmatched, and caught completely by surprise. It'd be a miracle if they made it out unharmed.

Unfortunately, right as Sam wrapped his hands around a rifle, someone's gun went off. The bullet found his left leg, blasting pain through his whole body and dropping him to the floor. He barely heard Dean shout his name over the sound of his own cry, but he still managed to twist himself around, desperate to kill Jacob. They might not survive this, but he wasn't going to let the son of a bitch walk out either.

He struggled to prep the rifle, but his arms were shaking and Jacob was too fast. With a predatory smile, he bore down on Sam and plucked the weapon from his grasp, following through with a vicious hook to the face. Sam's head hit the ground, and for a moment, he was too dazed to move. In the distance, Dean was shouting furiously. The fight was over, and they were screwed.

The next thing Sam knew, Jacob was thrusting a towel against his leg. The pressure burned, and Sam fought back a moan. He tried to sit up, but Jacob pushed him back down. "Don't make it worse, boy."

"Get away from him," Dean barked. Two of the Stynes had forced him to his knees, and were now clutching his arms to hold him in check. Sam thought he recognized them from a year ago. Earl and Freddie, the bastards who took Jessica. Apart from them were two other well-dressed creeps, one in his thirties, one in his fifties. They stood a ways back, watching the scene in amusement.

"You know," Jacob said, his blue eyes scanning every inch of Sam's body. "Since I made it out of prison last night, I've been hankering for physical contact. Thirteen months in solitary, and the deprivation can really get to you. How 'bout it, Sammy? Want to help me satisfy my cravings?" He pushed down on the injury, and Sam all but screamed.

"Jacob, you son of a bitch!" Dean thrashed helplessly, and Jacob smiled at him.

"Dean," he said as if greeting an old friend. "You're looking well." He rose to his feet and drifted towards the elder Winchester, giving Sam the opportunity to sit up and search for another weapon. The Styne in his fifties, however, saw him and quickly aimed his Uzi at his other leg. Sam stopped short, heart racing. The fact that he wasn't dead yet offered very little comfort.

"You're a coward," Dean told Jacob through gritted teeth. "What, can't beat me on your own, so you resort to this? I bet your daddy's real proud."

Jacob squatted so they were eye level. "And how proud will your daddy be when he finds out you weren't able to protect your baby brother? Isn't that your job, Dean?" He chuckled. "I could kill you right now, but that's not as much fun as leaving you behind, knowing you failed in every sense of the word." He reached out and brushed his fingers through Dean's hair. "Don't worry. We'll take good care of Sam."

Dean hollered at him, struggling for all he was worth. Meanwhile, the full implications of their predicament occurred to Sam. They weren't just going to shoot him. They were going to kidnap him—again—possibly to pick up where they left off. He could still remember Azazel's words.

" _John killed your son? The best payback would be to adopt his."_

He didn't realize he was crawling backwards until he hit the wall.

Laughing, Jacob stood and signaled to the Styne in his thirties. "Would you like to do the honors, Victor?"

"Certainly." Victor pulled a glass bottle from his pocket and proceeded to pour some kind of fluid onto a white handkerchief. Sam watched, horrified, as he crossed over to Dean and seized the back of his neck. "Sleep well, boy." He pressed the handkerchief over Dean's face, smothering him with chloroform.

"No!" Sam shouted while trying to get his legs under him. They refused to cooperate. A few seconds later, Earl and Freddie were all that kept Dean upright as he crumpled into unconsciousness. Sam began to sweat.

"Leave him handcuffed in the bathroom," Jacob told his henchmen, much to their pleasure. They hauled Dean away while Victor shook his head.

"We should take him with us, Jacob. He's still a legacy, and I can show you how to perform the ritual. It's not as complicated as you might think."

"Later," Jacob drawled, setting his sights back on Sam, who returned his gaze apprehensively. "These boys have to pay for their crimes, and I want to drag it out for a nice long time."

"Don't be stupid," Sam said, mustering all the defiance he could to keep his voice steady. "You know what my dad's capable of, and—"

"Your dad?" Jacob interrupted with a playful grin. He reached for Sam's ankles and yanked him away from the wall. Sam found himself lying on his back, with Jacob straddling his chest—his left knee pinned Sam's right arm to the floor. "Have you forgotten?" He grabbed Sam's left arm and pulled back the sleeve, removing the leather band to expose the tattoo, which he proudly displayed to his relatives. "You're a Styne now, Sammy. We are your fathers. We are your brothers. Did you honestly think you could escape from us?"

Not stopping to consider the consequences, Sam did the first thing that came to mind—he spat in Jacob's face. Of course, the satisfaction was very short-lived. Jacob didn't get angry; instead, his eyes twinkled and he used Sam's hand as a napkin. It was disgusting, and Sam shuddered, especially when Jacob kept the hand pressed against his cheek. "Let me go."

"Now why would I do that?" Jacob savored the moment, waiting for Earl and Freddie to return from the bathroom. Then, together, they rolled Sam onto his stomach. His leg protested painfully and he groaned as déjà vu swept over him. The three bastards pulled off his coat and outer layers, leaving him in a maroon long-sleeved T-shirt. They cuffed his wrists behind his back and moved down to his feet, pulling off his shoes and socks. Why they preferred having him barefoot, Sam didn't know, but it intensified his humiliation. He squirmed uneasily as Jacob groped around to steal his possessions—primarily his wallet and his phone.

"How'd you find us?" he asked, trying to focus on something other than the bastard's wandering hands.

"Oh, Freddie gets credit for that," Jacob said. "He has a penchant for computer hacking and cloaking spells. So when our lawyer learned you were under federal scrutiny, Freddie tapped into their surveillance and tracked you down. Almost lost you a few times—especially this morning—but it's hard to shake a tail when it's invisible, don't you reckon?" His fingers snagged Sam's hair and jerked his head back so he could whisper in his ear. "Personally, I think Freddie more than made up for his past negligence, so I'm inclined to give him a second chance with your girlfriend. You should know he fancies her."

 _Jessica…_ The threat filled Sam with fresh fear and he bucked frantically. "You stay the hell away from her!" His leg wound was agonizing and kept him from dislodging his three assailants. Scared and frustrated, he began shouting for help. "Dean! DEAN!"

"Victor!" Jacob reached out for the chloroform, and his relative hastily dumped more onto the handkerchief. He passed it to Jacob, who shoved the cloth over Sam's mouth and nose. It was impossible not to breathe in the odor. Sam recoiled, but Jacob had better leverage, and the cloth didn't slip. Soon, the room was spinning and Sam moaned as grogginess engulfed him. His body floundered, and just when he thought he'd pass out, Jacob released him.

"Not so fast, Sammy," he said maliciously. "I want you awake for this." Sam could barely think, much less struggle, as they rolled him onto his back. He thought he was going to be sick, and he turned his head to look anywhere but at his captors. Jacob, however, grabbed his chin. "You still with us?" They stared at each other, and Sam was too faint to resist. Jacob smirked. "Perfect. Uncle William, can you do something about his leg? I don't want any complications."

The Styne in his fifties, a startlingly thin man, leaned over Sam and touched his bloody leg. He chanted a few words in an unfamiliar language, and a bright silver glow emanated from his hand. It enveloped Sam's wound, colder than ice, which made him gasp. He writhed miserably, but Jacob, Earl and Freddie held him steady. A minute later, the pain was gone, and nothing remained of his injury but his torn and bloody jeans.

"What do you say, Sam?" Jacob patronized.

"Dean…"

Jacob shook his head, but he was clearly enjoying himself. "Not to worry. I can't expect you to have manners when your family comes from the ghetto. I mean, just look at this place!" He glanced around the room in contempt. "I had it better in my jail cell. You're a legacy, Sam. You don't belong down here in the slums. Let's get you somewhere civilized."

"No…" He trembled as Earl and Freddie hoisted him to his feet. Together, they dragged him across the room and into the parking lot where a bold limousine outclassed the Impala. Nauseous as he was, Sam wavered at the sight. "Don't…" They promptly ignored him.

A stylish chauffeur with black gloves and a driving cap stepped out to open the back door. He didn't look twice at the prisoner, but greeted the Stynes with professional courtesy. Sam was roughly jostled into the luxury vehicle, which had leather seats, colorful accent lights, and a long, lavish bar. As the Stynes piled in after him, he considered throwing up on principle. But then he remembered how Jacob cleaned his spit, and thought better of it.

"Lie down," the bastard said, manhandling him onto the velvety floor while the rest made themselves comfortable. They laughed, taking turns nudging him with their feet as he curled up into a ball.

It would be okay, he tried telling himself. They weren't going to kill him, and Bobby had been on the phone when the attack began. Help was coming. He just had to hold it together, look for opportunities to escape, and pray that Jessica was safe with the FBI. They would survive this. Just like before. They had to.

"Let's go, Giles," Victor called out to the chauffeur. "We have a lot of ground to cover."

"Yes sir."

The limo came to life and pulled away from the Impala. Away from the motel. Away from Dean.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _If you don't review after this, I just might quit. ;-)_


	5. Fear

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm sorry if there's any confusion between Victor Frankenstein and Victor Henriksen. It's just my luck that they share the same first name… Sorry about that. Generally, if I'm referring to Victor, I'm talking about Frankenstein. I will try to call Henriksen by his last name. Hope that helps clear things up! Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

 **(Nebraska … Thursday, October 22, 2005)**

The drive from the Roadhouse to Omaha could not have been more strained. Jessica sat stiffly in the backseat of an SUV with Ellen at her side—the woman refused to stay behind despite Agent Findley's claim that she wasn't under arrest. She felt responsible for Jessica, and would "sooner take Jo hunting" than trust a fed with her safety.

"No offense, sir," she had said earlier that afternoon, following Findley as he led Jessica into the parking lot. "But you're in over your head on this one."

No amount of diplomacy would change her mind, and as polite as Findley was, even he was prone to irritation. "I know about hunting, Mrs. Harvelle," he finally snapped. "I know about the Stynes, and I know about the supernatural. So maybe I don't have your experience, but I learn quickly, and if you people would just cooperate with me, I promise, Henriksen and I both want to help!"

His outburst filled Jessica with dread. The supernatural? She had no doubt the Stynes believed in the occult. But they were crazy lunatics! Surely the Harvelles and the Winchesters—not to mention an FBI Agent—were more rational than that. "Wait… What?" Her voice wavered, and Ellen paled while Findley blinked.

"You didn't know?" he asked contritely.

Jessica had promised Jo she wouldn't freak out, so she took a deep breath and reminded herself that plenty of people believed in strange things. Plenty of people believed in ghosts and paranormal activity. She knew several Wiccans back in California, and they were as nice as anyone else. Even if the Harvelles and the Winchesters and all their friends were keeping secrets from her, they never once made her feel threatened—not like the Stynes—and after a year, that had to mean something.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Jessica met Ellen's gaze. "So you think magic's real? And hunters do what exactly? Go looking for it?" She suddenly remembered the conversation she had with Sam on the night of their abduction.

" _Look, Jess… You have to understand… My dad's not a bad guy… It's just that my mom died when I was a baby, and he never recovered from it… Everyone said the fire was an accident, an electrical short in the ceiling or something, but dad… He thought it was arson. Murder. So of course he grew angry. And he wanted payback, but didn't know who to blame… So he took up hunting. He was a marine back in Vietnam, and he taught me and Dean everything he could to prepare us for anything life might throw at us… and I'm not talking about balancing a checkbook… We were constantly on the move… Dad gained a reputation with other hunters for being… highly skilled… like a force of nature. A lot of people admire him for it, but just as many resent him, and I… I can't live that life anymore."_

When he said hunting, she thought he meant normal hunting. When Jo introduced her to her dad's old hunting buddies, she thought they were normal hunters. Not ghost chasers. So did that mean Sam was raised investigating the supernatural? What kind of childhood was that? And what did it involve? Was it some kind of _Scooby-Doo_ thing?

"I'm sorry, Jessica," Ellen said somberly. "Agent Findley's right; we haven't been honest with you. But after everything with the Stynes, we couldn't drop that kind of bombshell on you. We thought it would be too overwhelming. We just wanted to shelter you from a terrible burden."

"That's insane."

"It's very real," Ellen assured her. "And I suppose it's time you learned the truth."

It was a lot to process. And now that the three of them were on the road making their way toward Omaha, Jessica found herself brooding nervously. This wasn't how she imagined her life turning out! And it wasn't what Sam wanted either. Somehow, she had to find him, and together, they would figure out a way to put all this behind them. Forever. It was the least they deserved.

They were just entering the city when Findley's supervisor, Special Agent Henriksen, called with disturbing news—Jessica could tell by the subtle change in her escort's voice. "Hello? …Yes sir… Yes sir… We're on our way now. Ellen Harvelle asked to come… I did… What!? When!? …How's that even possible!? …Dean is willing to meet us tomorrow morning, but he claims John and Sam are on their way to California. We have to warn them! …Yes sir. I understand… Be careful."

"What happened?" Ellen asked as the call ended.

"Jacob Styne escaped from jail." Findley punched another number into his phone while Jessica flinched. First Elizabeth? Now Jacob? It wasn't a coincidence, and all of a sudden, she considered the possibility that maybe things weren't as simple as she thought. "Come on, Dean, pick up!" Findley couldn't hide his urgency, and when Ellen reached out for Jessica's hand, she clutched it in terror. Why was this happening? It wasn't fair!

Findley cursed under his breath, dropped the phone, and stepped on the gas.

 **SPN**

 **(Cedar Rapids, Iowa … Thursday, October 22, 2005)**

Dean woke slowly with a throbbing headache and a terrible knot in the pit of his stomach. It was dark and his arms were fastened behind his back. Handcuffs? He groaned, testing his legs—they were bound at the ankles. It was eerily quiet, which meant his assailants were gone. And they took Sam with them.

" _And how proud will your daddy be when he finds out you weren't able to protect your baby brother?"_

Damn it. A rush of panic slipped through his rage. They had Sam! Last time, the kid had been traumatized enough, and that was before the Stynes were after vengeance. They would eat him alive, and Dean wasn't there to stop them. He swore loudly, wondering how long he'd been unconscious. How far could they have gone? He would catch up if it was the last thing he ever did, and he would kill every last one of them, but he had to find them first, and he couldn't do that while stuck here.

Channeling his fear into determination, Dean shifted his body to get a feel for his surroundings. He was in a tub. Where else? He sat up and fumbled over the side, toppling gracelessly to the floor. His shoulders ached, and he began to feel several bruises from the recent fight, which only reminded him that Sam had been shot in the leg. Son of a bitch.

He had to get his bearings. The tub meant he was in a bathroom, so he felt around for the toilet. There! Experience taught him that in these shabby motels the toilet was usually opposite the door. He scurried in that direction, reached a wall, and rolled to his feet. It was tricky finding the knob with his hands behind his back, but he soon managed it, and shuffled out to the main room. He shouldered the light switch and broke into the closet, where he knocked a wire hanger onto the floor. He dropped down after it, and within minutes had his arms and legs free. Finally.

Panting heavily, his gaze swept over the room. It was a mess. Their weapons had been scattered over the bed. Blood stained the carpet. Sam's coat, outer layers, shoes and socks were thrown haphazardly in the corner. And of course, the kid was nowhere to be seen. Dean covered his mouth, well aware that Jacob wanted to torment him. That was the whole point. What better way than by taking off with his brother? Sadly, it was working.

Shaking, he searched for his phone and immediately called his dad.

John answered on the first ring. "Who is this?" There was such hostility in his voice that Dean could tell he already knew. Right. Bobby would have raised an alarm.

"Dad, it's me."

"Dean? Are you okay? What the hell happened?"

His training helped him make a clear, calm report—though he felt anything but calm. "We were ambushed in our motel room by five Stynes, including Jacob. I didn't recognize the others, but one goes by Victor. Could be the head honcho, Victor Frankenstein. I'm not really sure, but… We just weren't prepared. They shot Sammy in the leg, and they took him, dad. They chloroformed me and left me here to make me wallow in my guilt. Apparently, they want to mess with us before they kill us."

"That's good," John said darkly. "That means they'll keep Sam alive, and we'll have a better chance at beating them."

"But how?" Dean asked. "I don't know where they went. I don't even know where to start looking. Not Shreveport, right? I mean, they're not that stupid."

"If we can't find them, they'll eventually come looking for us," John pointed out. "We need to be ready for anything. In the meantime, Bobby's on his way. You sit tight till he gets there. I'm going to make a few house calls; see if I can't learn anything."

Dean cringed at the thought of waiting here, in this room, with the weight of Sammy's absence, for however many hours it would take Bobby to arrive. He wanted to object—he wanted to start hunting—but John wouldn't stand him second-guessing orders. "Yes sir. What about the FBI? Did Bobby tell you they're going to arrest Ellen if I don't turn myself in?"

"He might have mentioned it," John said impatiently. "But right now our priority is Sam. We can sort everything out with the feds when this is over. Go ahead and call that Agent Findley guy. Warn him that Jessica's in danger. She's still Sam's weak spot, and you can bet the Stynes will try exploiting that. Then, tell him to back off and let us do our job, since they can't seem to manage theirs."

"Yes sir." Dean racked his brain, knowing there was something else he had to communicate. Something important. "Oh! Dad, check for tracking devices. Findley planted one on the Impala."

"Understood."

"And Dad…" Dean hesitated, grappling with his anguish. "Dad, I'm sorry…"

"Don't be sorry," John snarled. "Focus on making _them_ sorry."

 **SPN**

Jacob Styne could hardly contain his excitement. The expression on Dean's face had blown him away, surpassing his expectations, and now that he was in the Frankenstein limousine, surrounded by family members, with Sam at his feet, he realized the wait had been worth it. He was going to have so much fun.

"A toast," Victor said after serving the champagne. Like William, Earl and Freddie, Jacob held up his glass, but kept an eye on Sam. He was curled up on the floor, apparently tuning them out, but Jacob sensed his dismay. By now, the chloroform had worn off, and nothing could hide his tension. "To loved ones lost, and loved ones found."

"Hear, hear," William said, and they all drank cheerfully. It was Jacob's first taste of wine since his arrest, and he relished it. Everything finally felt right with the world, and if that wasn't enough, his evening was just getting started.

"There's a glass here for you, Sammy, if you'd like it," he teased, prodding the kid's shoulder with his toe.

Sam grimaced, but then met Jacob's gaze resentfully. "Sure. I'll drink to idiots with a death wish." His bravado impressed the Stynes, and they all chuckled appreciatively. Jacob himself thought back to a certain demon's words.

" _Can you think of anything better than bending someone to your will? It's intoxicating. And with a boy like Sam… Trust me, Jacob. You'll love it."_

So that's what he meant. Like breaking a horse, there would be no satisfaction if there wasn't also a challenge. "You know," he said, bending forward conspiratorially. "If Azazel's right, then one day you're going to be a legend, and you'll thank us for our guidance and patronage." Sam shrank back, failing to mask his fear.

"Azazel?" Victor asked, glancing from Jacob to William. "You mean the demon with the yellow eyes?"

"He was a friend of my father's," Jacob said. "And he's got some kind of claim on this little prize." He gave Sam's shoulder another nudge, and this time, the kid countered by swinging his legs around to kick Jacob below the knees—it was an attack he saw coming and easily blocked, though it cost him his champagne. The drink spilled onto Sam's jeans, which at least was better than the floor. Jacob smirked. "Would you believe Lilibet read his palm and called him the Holy Grail? We sure do live in exciting times."

"Speaking of our darling Elizabeth," William said as Victor refilled Jacob's glass. "What are we going to do about her recklessness? Her abilities are evolving much faster than mine ever did, and with Doc Benton's incapacitation, she'll be overcome with grief. Unstable. Treacherous. She already broke out of jail and caused quite a scene in the process."

"Well, she's your daughter," Jacob said. He liked how the champagne smelled and, perhaps immaturely, poured it over Sam's upper body, from his waist along his side to his shoulder. He groaned and squirmed, which naturally provoked Jacob to splash the rest on his face.

"Cut it out!" He shook his head in frustration, spurring Jacob to lean down with his other hand and comb his fingers through his hair. He was aggressive, not letting Sam roll out of reach, and the kid winced when he pulled on his scalp.

"Women," Freddie grumbled. "Give them an inch and they take a mile. That's why they all need husbands to put them in their place."

"That is the problem with this century," William agreed pensively. "Too much freedom." He glanced sideways at Victor. "Would you take her back?"

"It would be a pleasure."

Deep down, Jacob felt a slight pang of remorse at the enthusiasm in his cousin's voice. Elizabeth could be a selfish, duplicitous whore, and yet he loved her like a sister. He always had, and always would. When she first ran away from home, it felt like abandonment, and it hurt more than he cared to admit. She deserved Victor, he had no doubt about that, and should their marriage be renewed, he wouldn't object. Still, he had mixed feelings.

Not wanting thoughts of Lilibet to spoil his mood, Jacob sneered. "What about you, Sammy? I don't suppose you know the first thing about managing women. We'll have to arrange some lessons for you. Freddie can demonstrate as soon as we're joined by Miss Jessica."

"Good idea," Sam said sarcastically. "Then we can see how he let her escape."

All eyes swerved to catch Freddie's response. Technically, he wasn't the one who let the girl escape. Earl was—and right now, Earl's whole demeanor betrayed his embarrassment. Freddie, however, had been in charge, which made it his responsibility, and he was only just recovering from the disgrace. Flushing, he took a swig of champagne and slithered off the seat.

Jacob drew back, watching hungrily as Freddie crawled on top of Sam. The kid wrenched away, but he didn't have the same 'enhancements' that the Stynes had, and he couldn't stop Freddie from mounting him.

"When I get my hands on your girlfriend," he cooed, twisting Sam onto his back. "I'm going to treat her nice. Like this." He slid his tongue across Sam's cheek, and he moaned in delight. "You taste sweet." He licked him again, and Sam promptly head-butted him. Freddie cursed, toppling over, and Sam started kicking him for all he was worth. Growling, Freddie struggled to seize his legs and pin them down. Then, he rolled Sam onto his stomach and pressed his face against the floor. "Fighting will only make it worse, boy!"

"Bring it on, you son of a bitch." Sam bucked rebelliously. Livid, Freddie drew a knife from inside his jacket, but before he had the chance to wield it, Victor grabbed his arm.

"I'd thank you not to make a mess in my limo," he snarled. They glared at each other, but Freddie wasn't about to challenge the authority of Frankenstein himself, so he sheathed the blade and returned to his seat, sulking. It might have been a score for Sam, but none of the Stynes would tolerate him—or anyone—getting the best of them, so Victor reached for his cuffed arms and pulled him up, forcing him to sit on the floor between his legs. "They told me you're a college drop-out, son. Tell me, before you left school, did you happen to read my biography?"

"Go to hell!" Sam would have writhed out of his grasp, but Victor sank his fingers deep into his shoulders.

"Most of it's pure nonsense," he said. "That girl, Mary Shelley, took appalling liberties. For example, when I reanimate a corpse, I don't let it intimidate me, and I certainly don't let it run amok. So unless you want to learn exactly how I subdue my creatures, I would suggest you apologize to Freddie."

"No way!" Despite his obstinacy, Sam looked uncomfortable. "He was asking for it."

Victor smirked. "As are you." He wrapped his legs around Sam's chest, holding him in place, so his could move his hands up to the boy's head. Slowly and deliberately, he fondled every part of Sam's face, starting with his jaw. Sam grunted, thrashing frantically but helplessly, as Victor's fingers explored his cheeks. "Life and death… So much of it depends on sensory perception." Taking care not to hurt the boy, Victor played near his eyes—Sam miserably clenched them shut. "I have the unique ability to regulate those perceptions. Sight. Sound. Taste. Touch. They're all processed by the brain. All I have to do is reach inside and make a few adjustments." He stroked Sam's forehead. "I can stimulate you beyond your comprehension, or I can shut it all down and give you an idea of what death will be like. Shall we begin?"

"Leave me alone!" There was a lovely hint of desperation in his voice.

Jacob leaned forward on his elbows. "Apologize to Freddie, Sam. Then we'll give you a short reprieve."

He took a moment to weigh his options, but Azazel was right about his recalcitrance, and he lifted his chin. "No."

Immediately, Victor squeezed Sam's head between his hands and spoke a short incantation. His fingers penetrated Sam's skull, magically worming into his brain. Sam gasped, kicking his legs hysterically. Tears filled his eyes, and by the time Victor released him, he sagged limply to the floor.

William watched with a quizzical brow. "Not to rain on your parade, but can we really afford this?"

The Stynes were, in general, expert spell-casters, but even they had to endure the inevitable side-effects. Magic would always come with a price. Elizabeth's visions made her sick. Freddie's concealment spells caused physical mutilation. Darker spells required living sacrifices.

A stunt such as sensory manipulation would normally inflict a migraine on the spell-caster, but like William, Victor carried a rare and precious amulet around his neck that absorbed the negative reaction. It would shelter him from harm, allowing him to practice all the magic he desired without consequences—until it reached its capacity. Then, it would empty itself, unleashing havoc in its wake. If Victor wasn't ready for it, if he didn't make the necessary preparations, it could potentially kill him. He had to be careful, wielding his magic wisely.

"Don't worry," he said. "I was quite gentle with him. It didn't take much effort and should wear off in a few minutes. Hardly worth mentioning."

"What kind of adjustments did you make?" Freddie asked, observing Sam's contorted expression.

Victor smiled maliciously. "I took his hearing, and intensified his sense of touch. Right now, I imagine the mere movement of the limo is more than he can bear. Better not bump into him."

Freddie scoffed and stretched out to tap Sam with his foot. Sure enough, the kid cried out in agony. It was like music to Jacob's ears, and he grinned sadistically.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Y'all can blame (thank?)_ _ **Bianca Valdez**_ _and_ _ **Kas3y**_ _for Sam's treatment. They forced me! (Just kidding!)_

 _Please review!_


	6. Confrontation

**SPN**

 **(Cedar Rapids, Iowa … Thursday, October 22, 2005)**

It was nearing midnight by the time Bobby's 1971 Chevelle pulled into the poorly lit parking lot outside Dean's motel. The place was a hovel on the wrong side of town, which normally wasn't a concern, but it did explain why no one came to help at the sound of gunfire. Not too many good Samaritans would check into an environment like this. Even for the boys, it was a step down, which meant they were taking extreme measures to cover their tracks. Agent Findley must have rattled their nerves more than Bobby realized.

He circled around the building until he caught sight of the Impala—and there was Dean, pacing anxiously like a caged animal. Obviously, he wasn't coping well, but that wasn't a big shocker. His brother had been kidnapped, and instead of charging to the rescue, Dean was stuck here, at the very scene of the crime, waiting for Bobby's help. Sometimes John could be an insensitive dick.

Parking the car, Bobby clambered outside and crossed over to the panicking hunter. Dean turned to him with such anguish on his face that, before he could say anything, Bobby yanked him into a firm hug. "Are you okay, boy?" It was too dark to make an accurate assessment of his condition, and he doubted Dean would fess up to an injury. Still, the thought of ushering him inside did not sit right, even for a diagnosis.

"What are we gonna do, Bobby?" Dean didn't wait for a reply. "I'm at a loss here! I asked around, but…" He grunted, running a hand through his hair. "Most of the occupants in this place are minors, and they've been through hell themselves. They're not talking. So I had a nice long 'chat' with the manager, and he said they came in shortly after us with enough cash to buy his silence. They were driving a limousine, and that's all he knows."

"He still alive?" Bobby asked warily. Honestly, it wouldn't bother him to have one less scumbag in the world, but they tried to draw the line at killing people.

"I don't know. Maybe." Dean shrugged. "I told Findley when I called him earlier. He's gonna have a team standing by, and they'll make sure those kids are safe, once they know which motel it is. But we've got to clear out first."

"So you spoke with Findley?"

"Briefly. Dad wanted them to know Jessica could be a target so they can keep her safe. Findley claims he can help. Says he knows what the Stynes are capable of. He even let me talk with Ellen, and she's going to have Ash search online for any new record of the Stynes and their known aliases. If he can figure out where they've been, maybe he can figure out where they're going."

"He's been successful in the past," Bobby assured him. The American branch of the Styne family primarily lived in their Shreveport estate, but they owned several vacation homes throughout the country. It took Ash a matter of hours to find them all, and they were soon ransacked by hunters eager to get their hands on the offspring of a freak like Frankenstein. Granted, they never found their intended prey, but at least now the Stynes had fewer places to seek refuge. "I'm sure Ash will come up with something."

"But until he does, we don't have any other leads," Dean said. "And even if the FBI can help, they're bound by certain restrictions that will only slow us down. So here I am, on standby, with nothing to do, no way to help—and dad? He's got me on a freaking need-to-know basis!"

God only knew what John was up to. Bobby sighed. "Well, feeling sorry for yourself ain't gonna do much good, so why don't you follow me to Toledo? You remember that Rabbi I told you about, from the Judah Initiative? Isaac Bass? I called him tonight, and he agreed to meet us halfway, first thing in the morning. He's got a bone to pick with the Stynes for their involvement with the Nazi party, and he knows a thing or two about the Men of Letters. I figure, if he's some kind of expert, we might as well consult him."

Dean nodded grimly. "What about that demon you were after?"

It was not a pleasant reminder, and the old hunter scowled. The last time the Stynes took off with Sam, Bobby found himself searching the kid's apartment out in California. There, he met a college student named Brady who seemed to have alarming access to Sam's private life. They were friends, but Bobby would wager the Salvage Yard it wasn't a healthy relationship. Sure enough, after the dust settled, he returned to Stanford to learn that Brady was possessed. He did everything he could to interrogate the son of a bitch—primarily to find out why he was stalking Sam—but he wasn't an average demon, and he soon gave Bobby the slip, nearly killing him in the process.

"He's more of a priority than Elizabeth," he eventually said. "But not Jacob. Especially not now. I'll catch up to him later."

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, and Bobby got the distinct impression it wasn't his first time apologizing. Despite his recent admonishment, he gently clapped the boy's shoulder.

"I know you are. But Dean, it's not your fault. We'll get your brother back. I promise."

 **SPN**

 **(Tennessee … Friday, October 23, 2005)**

As the dawn sky brightened, purple, pink and radiant, Elizabeth recklessly swerved through the morning traffic on her stolen motorcycle. She felt ecstatic, teeming with power she could barely contain. Combined with her grief, it compelled her to rampage like Tiamat, but she had to hurry. It wouldn't last forever, and when it finally burned out, she would crash. Hard. This energy… This storm inside her… It was a rare opportunity, too precious to waste.

Her vision led her to a wide interstate where the collateral damage would be immense. Her secretive family would be scandalized, but they had it coming. After what they did to Thomas, what more could they expect? Elizabeth didn't care about the innocent commuters caught in the crossfire. Why should they be happy when her life was miserable? She deserved better than this. She was a Styne!

Pulling into the grassy median, she dismounted the bike and glanced northwest. They were on their way. Her heart began fluttering, but on the surface, she remained cool and collected. Focused. Like Artemis, in boots, jeans and a leather jacket. She marched back onto the road, waving an arm to send the oncoming cars spiraling out of the way. Many of them crashed, careening off the pavement into trees, signs and other vehicles. Brakes squealed. Horns blared. Debris sailed overhead. Elizabeth felt a rush of satisfaction. She waved her other arm, and a semi truck veered across the median, straight into the opposite lane.

In a matter of seconds, she transformed a normal, peaceful corridor into a messy, bloody disaster area. Gazing at the wreckage, at all the people scrambling for cover, screaming and sobbing pathetically, Elizabeth again wondered what took her so long to unleash her pent-up rage. This was overdue, and she savored every moment.

"Lady!" A man in a polo shirt with a long gash on his head stumbled towards her. He was hurt, scared and confused, but he tried holding it together in typical heroic fashion. "Are you—?" He never got the chance to finish his question. Elizabeth snapped his neck with the tilt of her chin. Then, she began striding up the road, psychically flinging obstacles from her path.

There they were.

In the distance, she beheld a fancy stretch limo—the same one from her vision—caught in the traffic jam. It reeked of Frankenstein's vanity. Steeling herself, Elizabeth made her advance, stopping short only when the back door burst open. Five men poured out. Her father, William, and her cousins, Jacob, Earl, Freddie and Victor Frankenstein. She could have handled the last three, but her father and Jacob… Once upon a time, they were more than family. They were her mentors. They were her friends. She loved them, but after losing Thomas, she loathed them too.

"Elizabeth!" her father exclaimed, taking the lead. He held out his arms. "My darling! What a nice surprise. It's been far too long, hasn't it?"

She narrowed her eyes, looking past him to glower at Frankenstein. "You've taken everything from me," she hissed, discharging a violent surge of energy that he only deflected with William and Jacob's assistance. Her powers were stronger than his—at least for the moment. If she could separate them, he'd be vulnerable.

"Elizabeth!" William's warm greeting turned to irritation. "You know we don't brook temper-tantrums in our family. Get a hold of yourself."

"You're starting to sound like Uncle Monroe," she replied evenly, though her blood ran cold. Raising an arm, she managed to levitate a car, barely noticing the people inside it. "You'll have to excuse me, daddy, but I've had enough." Tears were starting to well up, but she fought them back. "No more." She dropped the car over their position, forcing them to scatter.

"Lilibet!" Jacob charged at her like a linebacker, and she instinctively held out a hand to prevent him from tackling her, ensnaring him in a psychic barrier. "Lilibet, listen to me! I wasn't there when they captured Doc Benton. I had no part in it, and I'm sorry for your loss, but you have to accept it, and you have to move on, because we're still family, and we need you, girl. You hear me? We need you!"

"You need me?" Elizabeth asked skeptically. "No, Jacob. You told me you were tired of protecting me, and if I chose Thomas over y'all, then that would be it. Remember? You said you won't lift a finger to help me, and guess what? I'm choosing Thomas. So you can save your speeches about how much we mean to each other, because you're the one who drove me away!"

"I was angry!" Jacob protested. "I was frustrated, and those Winchesters had me at my wits' end. But I didn't mean it, Lilibet, I promise!"

"You expect me to believe that?" From the corner of her eye, she noticed William and the others circling around her. She smirked. "Are you trying to distract me, Jacob?" She lowered the barrier and propelled him straight into her father. Spinning on her heel, she confronted Frankenstein. "Last time we were together, I would have strangled myself to escape your cruelty. I should have poisoned you from the start."

The bastard grinned. "Oh my dear. I won't let you get away that easily." He made a small gesture with his hand, and Elizabeth's arms dropped to her sides. Some kind of mystical force wrapped around her, constricting her so tightly it compressed her lungs. "I'm impressed," he said. "You're considerably stronger than before. You must take after your mother. But don't forget, you can't keep this up forever, and I have more endurance than you."

Elizabeth jerked her chin, throwing him backwards with enough ferocity to break his spell. She sensed Earl and Freddie coming up behind her and waved her arm around to knock them off their feet. Glancing back at them, she was pleased to see Earl's jacket fall slightly askew, revealing his shoulder rig. Perfect. She curled her fingers, summoning a gun from the holster. A Micro Uzi. Like all Stynes, she knew her way around modern weaponry and had it primed within seconds. Unfortunately, when she aimed it at Frankenstein, the coward vanished before her very eyes.

He gave her no time to process, but reappeared directly in front of her, inside her reach. He batted her arm aside, grabbed her shoulders, and kissed her roughly on the mouth. Nausea made her stomach roil, and she twisted away from him, but the shock stalled her momentum, and she swiftly ran out of steam. After a two-day high, she suddenly collapsed, faint, dizzy and helpless. She knew it would happen sooner or later, and with Victor supporting her against his chest, she nearly cried in disappointed disgust.

"That's it," he whispered affectionately, stroking her hair. "Rest now. I've got you."

She shuddered, and everything went dark.

 **SPN**

As the Stynes regrouped, Victor picked up Elizabeth's inert body and marveled at her weight—practically nothing! How could a mere slip of a girl contain such power? He considered the devastation she caused—totaled vehicles, a burning car, countless casualties and frightened onlookers. On the one hand, it was beautiful and splendid. But on the other, it was needless exposure, which they couldn't afford at the moment. All this for an old wretch who had been falling apart at the seams? What was the bitch thinking?

Far-off sirens were gaining ground. They had to leave.

"Well, this was fun," Freddie grumbled, recovering the discarded Uzi and returning it to Earl. "I don't see why we tolerate her. Anyone else in this family would be strung up for rebelling."

William bore down on him and grabbed his jaw. "What makes you think you have the liberty to comment on my daughter's behavior? Keep your complaints to yourself, or I will cut out your tongue."

Freddie quickly backpedaled, and Victor rolled his eyes. "Let's go!" He turned to his limousine, only to freeze at the sight of his trusty chauffeur lying sprawled out on the pavement. "Giles?" Transferring Elizabeth to Jacob, he rushed to the man's aid. "Giles, what happened?" Thankfully, he was still conscious, but he must have hit his head when he toppled over. He was in a daze, and a lump was already forming on the back of his skull.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whimpered as Victor helped him sit up. "I tried to stop him."

The boy! Under better circumstances, an escape attempt would prove diverting, but not now. Not when they were pressed for time. Glancing at Jacob, Victor scurried to the limo and stuck his head inside. Sure enough, it was empty. Unbelievable. Had no one seen this coming?

"No sense getting angry," William calmly observed, ever the voice of reason. "We can't exactly blame him for running away." He promptly relieved Jacob of Elizabeth and motioned them all to move. "I'll get started on some crowd control. Y'all find the little runt and bring him back. I doubt he's gone far."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Who wants Sam to escape? Who wants him to be caught? Please review!_


	7. No Escape

_**Author's Note:**_ _Kas3y, this chapter is all for you! I try to keep my promises. :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Tennessee … Friday, October 23, 2005)**

Sam sprinted through the trees as fast as he could. It was hard to stay balanced with his wrists cuffed behind his back, and the detritus blanketing the forest floor did a number on his bare feet, but he didn't have time for caution. The Stynes would be after him soon—Elizabeth wouldn't be able to distract them forever—and he had to put as much distance between them as possible.

Perhaps he should have sought help among the bystanders back on the interstate. Surely someone would have the decency to give him a lift, or at the very least offer him a bobby pin. Given the unfolding crisis, and the lack of police, he could probably make a strong case that the crazy, murderous psychics had been holding him against his will. But then again, enough people were already hurt. He didn't want to consider how many lost their lives back there. Elizabeth had been unforgiving, and if her family caught up to Sam, they would happily kill anyone aiding and abetting him. He wasn't about to jeopardize more civilians just so he could get away.

Consequently, he took shelter in the trees, where his only plan was to escape. He wasn't entirely sure what part of the country he was in—the outskirts of the Appalachians? The foliage was colorful, and the current temperature was brisk. He could be heading straight into the wilderness where survival would be hard enough without his arms encumbered. He had to find something to pick the cuffs, but not yet. He had to keep running. Besides, a part of him would rather perish out in the elements than return to his abductors. The Stynes were evil and perverted, and he couldn't bear to be their prisoner. He was supposed to be a hunter, not a victim!

As Sam dodged oaks and maples, hurdling roots and rocks, a memory from a year ago crept unbidden to the surface. It was the last morning of his captivity, and Jacob, along with his henchman, Rhett, had dragged him from the attic, where he had been chained up, down to the basement, where the family kept a secret laboratory.

 _It was a large and sterile room lined with green alcoves where the Stynes stored their spare parts. Shelves upon shelves displayed jars with organs, tissues, and other appendages that could not be easy to obtain. Sam bit down on his gag, inadvertently picturing the poor souls who suffered unspeakable torture for the Stynes to harvest their crop. It was sickening._

" _Morning, sunshine!" Monroe chirped as Jacob and Rhett steered him over to a stainless steel operating table. Sam squirmed between them, especially when he noticed the tattoo artist—a bald man in a muscle T-shirt with several piercings and the image of a red serpent decorating his face. He met Sam's gaze, and his eyes turned black. A demon!_

" _Allow me to introduce Shax," Monroe said. "He's come a long way on very short notice, so I trust you'll treat him with respect." Sam shook his head, kicking up with both legs to push off the side of the table. He propelled himself backwards, bringing Jacob and Rhett with him, and they all landed on the floor. Immediately, he twisted to his hands and knees, somehow managing to break free. He scrambled to his feet and darted for the door, pulling off the gag as he went._

 _But then Rhett seized his ankle, yanking him back down, and Jacob lunged on top of him, wrapping his arms around his neck. Sam wanted to throw up, and he wrestled desperately to avoid the inevitable. Unless John and Dean arrived in the next few minutes to rescue him, he'd be stuck with a painful, permanent reminder of this nightmare._

" _NO! DON'T!" He groaned when Rhett managed to pin down his legs. Together, the two thugs picked Sam up, and no amount of struggling could stop them from setting him on the table. "Please don't do this!" They held him down while Monroe reached over to fasten a leather strap around his wrist. He progressed around the table, binding each limb in turn. Because Sam's legs were so long, he had to bend his knees to secure his ankles. It was uncomfortable, and Rhett winked as he forlornly tested the restraints._

" _So this is John Winchester's child?" Shax sauntered forward and scrutinized Sam's face._

" _Not anymore," Monroe said as the demon leaned in close to catch his scent. Sam cringed, turning his head away. "Now he's our child."_

" _You're delusional…" It was getting harder and harder to provoke them. Sam wallowed miserably, still pulling on his restraints, while Jacob brushed his hair._

" _He's pretty," Shax decided, returning to his equipment, which he had arranged on a nearby cart. "You understand the price, Monroe? Like every artist, I put my heart and my soul into my work—or rather, my essence, since we demons don't have hearts or souls to speak of. The recipe for my ink is one-of-a-kind, rare, and expensive."_

" _We've gone over this," Monroe assured him. "And I always pay, don't I?"_

" _Good." Shax rolled the cart to Sam's side and examined his left arm. "Now, now… I can't have you fidgeting, boy. You'll mess everything up. Try to lie still."_

" _Go screw yourself." Sam jerked his arm defiantly. Jacob chuckled, planting his hand firmly over Sam's mouth while Monroe wandered over to a supply cabinet. He soon returned with medical gloves and some kind of ointment tube._

 _As he snapped the gloves on, he smirked at Sam. "You're only making this harder on yourself, son. I hope you appreciate that." He opened the tube and squeezed the ointment onto his palm. "This might sting at first, and it's gonna be cold, so brace yourself."_

 _Sam tensed, watching apprehensively as Monroe rubbed his hands together. He signaled Rhett to pull the short sleeve of Sam's shirt up over his shoulder, and began smearing the ointment up and down his arm. It felt like someone immersed the limb in icy acid. Sam convulsed, protesting wildly against Jacob's hand gag. This couldn't be happening to him. Where was dad? Where was Dean?_

 _Gradually, his skin absorbed the ointment, and he felt his arm grow numb. Terrified, he struggled to move it, but it soon became dead weight. Paralyzed. He whimpered as Shax gave it an experimental poke. No response._

" _That's more like it," the demon purred._

" _Don't worry," Jacob whispered in Sam's ear. "The effects are temporary."_

 _With the arm disabled, Monroe had no qualms about removing the leather strap. He then positioned the palm face up, and wiped the wrist with rubbing alcohol. Sam squirmed, but Rhett compressed his shoulder, so he couldn't disrupt them even by thrashing his body around. Monroe stepped back and Shax took over. Once the wrist was clean and shaved to his satisfaction, he met Sam's gaze._

" _I'm not going to use a stencil," he confessed. "I never have; I've never needed one. But don't worry; I'm quite familiar with the design. I tattoo everyone in this family."_

 _Again, Sam tried to protest, but Jacob's hand remained heavy against his mouth. Shax fixed a needle into his coil machine and turned on the power. Loud buzzing filled the room. Sam's eyes flashed toward the door. This was the part where Dean would charge in, guns blazing, to stop this atrocity just in the nick of time. Right? How many other victims held similar hopes as they suffered on this table?_

 _Despite the numbing agent, when Shax began his line work, Sam felt it. Compared to some of his hunting injuries, the pain wasn't too bad. He would rather have a single hot blade slicing neatly through his skin than a monster's dripping fangs biting through his leg. Nevertheless, under these circumstances, he still writhed, pulling and kicking helplessly._

" _It hurts more when you fight," Shax told him. "Try taking deep breaths."_

 _Like he could with Jacob's hand in the way. His face began flushing, and the longer he lied there, the worse he felt. How would he ever explain this to his father? The shame was overwhelming._

 _When Shax finally finished his work, Monroe beamed. "Congratulations, Sammy. You are now officially a Styne!" With the repulsive crest branding his wrist, he was irreversibly tainted, and the thought made him sick. As the demon applied a bandage, Sam clenched his eyes shut and tried to hold his queasiness at bay._

He would never forget that morning. It haunted him with more ferocity than any ghost—at least ghosts could be salted and burned. There was nothing he could do to erase his memory. Even now, the shame still racked him, and he would give just about anything to ensure his freedom.

Eventually, Sam had to slow down. He was running on no sleep and no sustenance, and unless he wanted to pass out, he would have to pace himself. Unfortunately, his feet were killing him, and the moment he stopped sprinting, the pain intensified. He had no protection against the dead leaves, pine needles, pine cones, rocks, bark, acorns, and fallen branches strewn across the underbrush, and his feet were torn and bloody.

Hissing, he took shelter beneath a large tree with several exposed roots, and sank to the ground. It worried him how rapidly his pulse was fluttering in his throat—one of his coping mechanisms over the past few months had been to exercise and train with Dean. He was supposedly in the best shape of his life, and yet he was currently out of breath. An after effect of Frankenstein's mind games? Not to mention the overall abuse.

A bead of sweat trickled down Sam's face, and he would have wiped it off if it weren't for the handcuffs. He twisted his wrists in frustration. What could he possibly use all the way out here to spring the lock?

"SAMMY!"

He froze at the sound of Frankenstein's voice.

"YOU KNOW WE HAVE TRACKING SPELLS, DON'T YOU? THERE'S NO ESCAPE!"

Crap.

He still had a considerable head start on them, so he sprang back up and bolted. Dean always said to go down swinging, but in this case, Sam would settle for making their lives as difficult as possible.

Of course, the Stynes seemed to possess all kinds of superhuman qualities—greater strength, greater durability, and apparently greater speed. They were catching up to Sam much faster than he anticipated, which meant he wasn't going to make it after all, and they weren't going to condone his misbehavior. Especially not after Elizabeth's indiscretion.

All at once, Sam burst out of the trees and found himself on the bank of a large pond. It was covered with some kind of green floating plant, and did not look inviting, but with the Stynes breathing down his neck, he didn't hesitate to plunge in. The water was cold, but not unbearable, and the muck was gentle on his feet. He sighed, stopping only when he was waist deep. If they were going to recapture him anyway, they would have to ruin their clothes—it was the least they deserved.

"That's far enough, Sam," Jacob said from behind.

Dejected, he turned to face his stalkers. Only four of them. William must have remained on the interstate. "Care for a swim?"

Jacob scowled; Frankenstein narrowed his eyes; Earl and Freddie exchanged aggravated looks. "What exactly do you hope to accomplish here, boy?"

They were pissed, and this wouldn't end well, but Sam wasn't about to relent. "You want me, you're gonna have to come and get me." He backed a step deeper into the water.

"Is that a challenge?" Frankenstein demanded, apparently out of patience. "Did you not pay attention back there? Did you not see what our family is capable of?" He raised his arm, curled his fingers, and pulled in—Sam barely had time to brace himself before he was magically reeled from the water like a fish on a line. Frankenstein caught him and immediately drove him to the ground. "You're in a lot of trouble, Sam."

Crap! He tried to push himself up, but Freddie appeared next to him and viciously kicked his left oblique. The pain came as a shock and he nearly blacked out. His body dropped, and he didn't recover—at least not quickly. They had him, and he groaned in defeat.

Someone else kicked him on the other side, and he gasped, holding back a cry. Suddenly, they were all kicking him over and over again, aiming primarily for his hips and midriff. Tears filled his eyes, and he barely heard their taunts through the subsequent haze. He thought they might kill him. A part of him wished they would. But then they stopped, giving him a much-needed reprieve. He rolled into a ball and tried not to whimper.

"I can't decide if your obstinacy is brave or foolish," Frankenstein said, loosening his tie. He glanced around at his cousins, and they followed suit—as Sam regained his bearings, he watched them nervously. "Jacob warned me you're a handful, son, and you're living up to your reputation, but make no mistake. You'll learn to mind us. I guarantee it."

"No…" Sam shook his head weakly, but stubbornly.

"Yes!" Frankenstein removed his tie and held out a hand for the others'. Once they were supplied, he knelt down and proceeded to bind Sam's legs, above the knees, below the knees, and twice at the ankles. It took him awhile—Sam did everything he could to resist—but eventually, he had the boy sufficiently hampered. "When we get you home, I'm going to enjoy playing with you."

He stood up long enough to remove his belt, then crouched back down to thread it around Sam's calves, creating a tether. Cinching it tight, he gave it an experimental tug, and Sam's body slid across the ground. His breath caught in his lungs; they weren't going to literally drag him back to the limousine, were they? He wasn't sure of the distance, but it was definitely a long way, and the terrain was hardly smooth.

Knowing better than to protest, which would only encourage them, Sam resigned himself to his predicament. He couldn't stop them, and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of apologizing. He wasn't broken yet, and even after they began towing him through the trees, if he could do it all over again, he would.

Still, the journey was hard on his arms—they kept getting snagged—and when his shirt hiked up, the forest floor scratched at his skin. He tried focusing on the sound of crunching leaves, and somehow managed to tune out the angry conversation of his captors—at least until they reached the tree line, where they were forced to release his legs or risk drawing more attention to themselves.

While Frankenstein began untying him, Jacob sat him up and roughly brushed him off. "You're covered in dirt, Sammy. What, you think we live in a barn?"

Sam would have fired back a snappy retort, but he was too physically and mentally drained. Instead, he stared out at the interstate in confusion. The wreckage had been cleared away, and the traffic was flowing steadily in both directions. He saw no sign of the disaster. None at all. How the hell? "What did you do?"

"Not sure, really," Jacob said. "We'll have to ask our uncle." He and Frankenstein hauled Sam up and steadied him when his legs threatened to give out. Together, they marched the rest of the way to the emergency lane where William and Giles were waiting with the limousine. Both men sneered at the sight of their shaky prisoner, and Sam ducked his head uncomfortably. Jacob, however, wasn't ready to let him off the hook. "You'll have to excuse the mess. We'll have him tidy up once we get home. But in the meantime, he has a question. Don't you, boy?"

All eyes turned to him expectantly, and Sam faltered. Something about their condescension made him feel like a wayward child, and he wasn't going to play along by speaking on cue.

"Well?" William asked, crossing his arms. "Out with it, son."

"I'm not your son!" Sam felt his cheeks burning, and would have lost his temper if he wasn't too sore and fatigued. "Trust me. My father's going to kill you. If my brother doesn't beat him to it."

William promptly slapped his face, and if it wasn't for Jacob's support, the attack would have sent Sam flying. The next thing he knew, the old man was grasping his shoulders, drawing him close. "Let me explain to you what's happening here, son—you deserve to know. My daughter, Elizabeth, thought she could defy us, and stupidly sparked a disaster to assassinate her husband. Now we can't have that, can we? I'm guessing you want to know how we covered it up? With a vanishing spell. All those wrecked cars, all those frightened people—those injured, dying people—they're still here. Just out of phase, detached from our plane of existence. Their new realm is a grim and hostile place; I doubt any of them will last very long."

Sam broke into a cold sweat. "Undo it!"

"Why?" William asked. "So they can run straight to the media and expose us? Not a chance."

"Please…" Sam begged. "Bring them back!"

"Let this be a lesson to you, son. When you fight us, people die."

This had to be a nightmare. How many innocent people would be lost forever? Sam shook his head desperately. "Please! I'll do anything you want! Just don't leave them like that!"

William scoffed. "Well, you're right about one thing—you _will_ do anything we want. But we're not negotiating for it. So get in the limousine. Now."

Without further delay, Jacob and Frankenstein ushered him back into his prison, where he immediately noticed Elizabeth lying unconscious on the seat. Like him, her wrists were cuffed behind her back, but since she caused so much death and destruction, he felt very little sympathy for her. Tears of anger, hate and frustration brimmed in his eyes, and he quickly curled up on the floor with his face turned away from the Stynes, hoping none of them would see.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	8. Necromancy

_**Author's Note:**_ _I_ _'_ _m not too sure about this chapter. It took forever to write, and it might be a little ambitious. Let_ _'s see where it goes!_

 **SPN**

 **(Toledo, Ohio … Friday, October 23, 2005)**

"So you're the Jewish Pastor Jim?" Dean asked, sitting next to Bobby at a local café in Toledo. It was a week before Halloween, and the place was decked out with pumpkins, child-friendly spiders and black cats. Most hunters disliked the holiday—especially Sam—and if it had been up to Dean, they would have found somewhere else to order breakfast. Not that any of them had much of an appetite.

Rabbi Isaac Bass sat across from them with a bagel and fruit bowl. He was an older gentleman bundled up in an overcoat with hunched shoulders, wire-rimmed glasses, and a felt hat. Easy to believe he lived through the second world war. As agitated and wary as Dean was, he had to admire the guy for his fortitude. All things considered, he aged well.

"I don't know this Pastor Jim," he said with a Yiddish accent. "But he is agreeable?"

"Yeah." Dean couldn't force a smile, so he settled for a weary nod. "He's the best. Damn good hunter, too." Bobby glared at him—between his attitude and his extra bacon, he wasn't making a great first impression, but the rabbi didn't seem to mind. In fact, he chuckled.

"Hunters," he said nostalgically. "It has been a long time since I've had the company of hunters. Or anyone I can freely discuss certain subjects with. Well, I do discuss them, but no one ever believes me. That's what happens when you get old. People start to pity you; they listen, but only to humor you. It does get lonely." He smiled at Bobby. "That is why I appreciate you calling me. How can I help?"

"My little brother's been kidnapped," Dean said softly, getting straight to the point. Rabbi Bass' pleasant expression abruptly faded. "The Stynes took him last night. His name is Sam. We have to find him, and we have to kill those sons of bitches before they can hurt anyone else."

The rabbi studied him pensively, so Bobby leaned forward to add, "I didn't want to elaborate over the phone, but that's basically the big emergency. You would like Sam—everyone does. He's smart, respectful, compassionate…" As he spoke, he cast another glare at Dean. It was simple to interpret—basically, Sam was everything his brother wasn't.

Thankfully, Rabbi Bass waved all that aside. "You can breathe easy, friend. I am not offended. You said these boys are descended from the Men of Letters? Do the Stynes know this?"

"They knew before we did," Dean said. "That's how it all started. They were looking for legacies to sacrifice for their favorite reincarnation spell. But we managed to send them packing, and now they're back for vengeance."

"I see…" Rabbi Bass sighed, taking his hat off—he wore a kippah underneath—and setting it on the table. "On behalf of my people, I owe you a debt. When the Thule Society began sponsoring the Nazis, no one realized how dangerous they were until the Men of Letters got wind of Herman Styne training Commandant Eckhart in the occult. Eckhart is the leader of the Thule, and he began conducting human experiments to practice necromancy. Like all Nazis, he had plans for world domination. He still does, I imagine. The Men of Letters warned us, and we established the Judah Initiative to fight back. I have spent my life opposing the Thule, and I confess, they are dangerous Nazi vermin. But compared to the Stynes, they are like schoolchildren. I don't know that I can help you."

Dean grimaced. If they wasted their time driving all the way out here when Sam needed them more than ever, he wouldn't be able to contain himself. "Bobby," he growled.

"What about your Golem?" the old hunter asked in alarm, recognizing Dean's mood and sharing his disappointment. The question, however, caught Dean by surprise. Golem? The hell?

Rabbi Bass shook his head. "I'm afraid the Stynes would have the power to revert him back into clay. He cannot save the boy." Bobby began a reply, but the rabbi cut him off. "Now, since you are hunters, we might consider another option I would not recommend to anyone else."

Dean felt his shoulders relax. "I like the sound of that." If it meant helping Sam while taking his emotions out on something evil, he was all for it.

Rabbi Bass smiled knowingly. "I thought you might. You remind me very much of an old friend who has since, well… The hardest part about aging is you to eventually outlive people. I am the last surviving member of the Judah Initiative, which naturally makes me the number one enemy of the remaining Thule. They keep me under surveillance. I believe my current stalker is a man called Torvald—one of Eckhart's closest confidants. Perhaps he can help you track down the Stynes."

Dean blinked, trying to process everything he just heard. Then, he and Bobby exchanged looks. "You mean to tell us there's a bona fide Nazi on your tail? Right now? Here?"

"Yes. Precisely. And he is not old, as I am. Like Eckhart, he somehow managed to retain his youth. Magic, I suppose. You understand, they are necromancers. They have power over the dead. I don't even know if they can be killed."

Nazi necromancers? Dean wasn't sure whether to laugh or cringe. "Son of a bitch." Then again, who in their right mind wouldn't want to hunt Nazis? "What do you think?" he asked Bobby, who shrugged noncommittally.

"Well, it's a place to start, I guess. If he can lead us to Sam, that's a win. If not, we gank a Nazi, and that's a win. As for the necromancy, we'll just have to burn his remains when we're through with him. If he doesn't have a corpse, he can't be reanimated, and if his spirit doesn't have anything to latch onto, he can't stick around to commune with his friends."

"You sure about that?" Dean asked. It sounded too easy—but then again, he was geared to fight the Stynes, and according to the rabbi, the Stynes were more threatening than the Nazis. Maybe this Torvald guy would be their lucky break—which they could definitely use right about now.

Bobby nodded, but it was an uncertain half-nod. "I'm willing to bet on it."

Rabbi Bass could not hide his relief, and Dean realized how painful it must be for him to have a stalker guilty of war crimes… of crimes against humanity… It wasn't right. He should kill the Nazi bastard just on principle.

"Question is," Bobby went on, "how do we ambush the guy? What's our play?"

"Ahh…" Rabbi Bass held up his finger. "I have an idea."

 **SPN**

As far as ideas went, this wasn't as direct as Dean would have liked. Sneaking out the back of the café, he took a quick jaunt around the block and came up on the other side of the busy street where he glanced around for suspicious characters. According to the rabbi, Torvald was a thin, clean-cut man with neat blonde hair, wire-rimmed glasses, severe cheekbones and a fancy suit. He would try blending into the crowd, but something about his general douchiness would always give him away to the select few who paid attention. He wasn't natural. He didn't belong in a free, liberal society where, as a rule, people valued equality.

There. Dean caught sight of him sitting hawkishly at a patio table outside a coffee shop where he had a clear view of the café. Either he was scoping the place out, or he was waiting for Rabbi Bass to leave. No doubt about it; with his austere demeanor, he didn't need a Swastika around his arm for Dean to peg him as a Nazi. If only they weren't in public…

Composing himself as much as possible, the young hunter made his discreet approach. Who'd have thought he'd ever cross paths with such an asshole? Nazi necromancers. It felt surreal. "Torvald?" he asked, taking a seat next to the man, who kept his gaze fixed on the café.

"I'm impressed," he replied with a German accent. "I assume the rabbi pointed me out to you. He is far too clever for his own good." He paused, briefly sizing Dean up and down, then glanced back at his target. "Now who might you be? And what is your business with the old man?"

"My uncle's business is with the old man. As for me? Well, that really depends on you."

Torvald curled his lips. "You know my name, which can only mean you know my politics. And you expect me to believe a fine, red-blooded American like yourself would even consider bargaining with someone like me?"

"Fair point." Dean shrugged. "They do condition us pretty young to hate you guys. But what can I say? I'm also an entitled high school drop-out who hates authority, and for the right price, well, I'd be willing to sell out my own uncle. Not to mention that grandpa in there. They don't know I'm talking to you. They think I went out back to have a smoke."

Finally, Torvald turned to give Dean his full attention. "And what, dare I ask, could you possibly have to sell to me?"

Dean leaned forward. "Your ledger. You know, the red one where your boss documented all his magical human experiments. He lost it when a Golem attack forced him to set his own camp on fire and flee for his life. It should have been destroyed, but somehow, it miraculously survived, and you fellas have been searching for it ever since. Well, we have it."

Torvald narrowed his eyes skeptically. "You're bluffing."

"Am I? You think that rabbi dropped everything and drove all the way out here just so we could talk genealogy?" If Dean wasn't such an experienced liar, he might have smiled at the irony. "This is a one time offer. If my uncle decides that rabbi has a claim to the ledger, he'll hand it over, and the rabbi will finish what his Golem started, and he'll destroy it. It'll be gone forever. If you want it, you have to come with me. Now."

"And what do you want in return?"

"You're a necromancer, aren't you? I recently lost my little brother, and I want to see him again." That much was true, and it pained Dean enough to show up on his face. Torvald considered his dark desperation, and immediately fell for it.

 **SPN**

They drove through the city under a heavy silence, making their way toward a storage facility that didn't actually exist. Dean could not believe he had a Nazi in the passenger seat of the Impala. His baby was too good for such garbage, but if it meant finding Sam, she'd have to take one for the team. Adding insult to injury, the moment he laid eyes on her, he said he preferred Mustangs. Bastard.

After awhile, Dean pulled off a secondary street into the parking lot of an abandoned mall. It was quiet, deserted, and clearly on the wrong side of town. Torvald took one look at it and realized his mistake, but Dean gave him no time to react. Letting the car drift, he leaned over, grabbed the Nazi, and slammed his face viciously against the glove compartment. Once. Twice. Three times.

His glasses cracked. Blood splattered everywhere. He was unconscious, but at least he was alive. For now, anyway. Dean glared at him. "Mustangs? Really?"

 **SPN**

They set up shop in the derelict food court. To be honest, it was creepy. The only light came from the windowed ceiling above the rafters. The storefronts were all gated off. The pools were drained. The plants were overgrown. Garbage littered the grimy floor. Dean wondered if anyone ever died on the premises. For all they knew, the place could be haunted. Good thing they brought plenty of salt and every weapon they could possibly need.

With plenty of seating space, they found a chair, sat Torvald down, yanked his hands through the back banisters, and cuffed his wrists. It wasn't very sturdy, but they weren't about to drop their guard around him, and he wasn't about to escape. Besides, he was in no condition to fight. Dean might have been overzealous with his attack. The pansy didn't wake for a good forty minutes.

By the time he groaned, lifting his head in disorientation, Dean, Bobby, and even the rabbi were all bored, lounging around him impatiently. Dean even had his legs propped up on a table. The sight made Torvald laugh. "I hope my incapacitation has not been too inconvenient for you." He focused on Rabbi Bass, who stiffly stood up, noticeably uncomfortable. "You surprise me. After all these years, you have never deceived me like this. I was starting to think you enjoyed my company."

Careful not to get too close, the old man walked toward him and spat at his feet. "You are a pig."

Dean whistled, drawing everyone's attention to himself. "Look, I'm all for small talk, but what do you say we cut the chit chat?" He sprang from his seat and took the rabbi's place in front of the Nazi. "Before you get any ideas, we searched you while you were out. Your phone, your little talismans, your weird dart thingie, they're all gone. And if you speak one word of an incantation…" He drew a long machete. "I'll cut off your freaking head. We clear?"

Torvald glared at him with a bitch face to rival Sam's. "What do you want?"

"Exactly what I said before. I want my brother. He was kidnapped by some friends of yours. The Stynes. Ring a bell?"

"The Stynes?" Whatever Torvald was expecting, that wasn't it. He shifted on his chair, testing his handcuffs. "I knew a Herman Styne once, but that was over sixty years ago. I would think he's dead by now. For whatever reason, he never expressed much interest in longevity."

Probably because the war preceded the Men of Letters' downfall. Legacies weren't endangered in the 30s or 40s, which meant Herman Styne would more than likely be reborn at some point in the future. But they would worry about that later. Dean shook his head. "You better try again, pal. Cause you were right about one thing. I am an American, and I won't hesitate to kill a Nazi. But more than that, I'm also a hunter, so I won't hesitate to kill a necromancer. The only reason you're still breathing is cause you might be useful. So tell me, are you useful?"

Torvald sighed, but he wasn't just a mindless lackey, and something about Dean's speech caught his curiosity. "You don't have the ledger. That was just the bait. What do the Stynes want with some poor hunter's baby brother? And what's the connection with the rabbi?" His face lit up as something occurred to him. "Oh, I see. You _were_ discussing genealogies, weren't you? The Judah Initiative and the notorious Men of Letters. Yes, Herman Styne mentioned them once or twice. You're a legacy, aren't you?"

"So they say," Dean confessed. "The Stynes are wanted by the FBI and their known addresses have all been seized. So where would they go for shelter, especially with a hostage? And how can I find them?"

Torvald scowled. "Why should I help you? You've already proven yourself treacherous, and I can't expect to leave this forsaken place alive."

"Question is," Dean shot back, "do we kill you the easy way? Or the fun way?"

"Why bother?" Torvald asked. "If I had to guess, your brother's already dead."

"In which case, we can really drag out the fun way." Dean nodded at Rabbi Bass. "I'm sure he'd like you to suffer for your war crimes. And I'm sure he's got plenty of methods we can try out. You know, the whole eye for an eye thing."

Torvald laughed disdainfully. "Please. I know him better than that. He doesn't have the stomach for this."

"Well, I do!" Dean yelled. "I'm gonna flay you alive, and if you're still kicking, I'll burn the rest of you to ashes!" That made Torvald blanch, and Dean was pleased to discover he was something of a coward.

After an uncertain pause, he said, "I can't fathom where the Stynes might take the boy, but with the right talisman, I can conjure someone who does."

"This talisman?" Bobby asked, holding up the confiscated item—it resembled an iron dreamcatcher dangling from a leather cord. He smirked at Torvald's surprise. "I've been around the block a few times, and I figured that's what it was when we emptied your pockets."

"Yes," Torvald said.

"What he's proposing," Rabbi Bass warily interjected, "is forbidden and bound to backfire. You cannot trust him."

"No," Bobby agreed. "That's why I'll be the one conjuring the thing. It'll be under my control, and I'll make sure it behaves itself." He glanced back and forth between the talisman and the Nazi. "So what do I need to drum up the right spirit? His picture? His DNA?"

"Simply his name," Torvald said. "And the proper invocation. But I dare not recite it for you." He gave Dean's machete a pointed glare.

"Don't worry about him," Bobby replied, producing a pistol. He aimed it at the Nazi's head. "I know a thing or two about magic, and if I don't like what's coming out of your mouth, I'll be the first to shut you up. So let's hear it, and don't try anything dumb."

Dean regarded his old friend appreciatively. Sometimes, Bobby could be as frightening as John. It wasn't just the way he spoke. It was the way he carried himself. Around civilians, he behaved like simple back-road recluse, keeping to himself and his cars, but around monsters and bad guys, he unleashed a dangerous side—especially when it came to his loved ones. And to his credit, Torvald took him seriously.

"You must hold the talisman and say, 'Contra omnipotentem obsecro hunc spiritum,' insert the name, and finish, 'iuxta ad facientum voluntatem meum.' But do be careful. Spirits tend to resent subjugation."

Bobby nodded. "So what else is new?" He met Dean's gaze. "Why don't you bust out that salt, just in case?"

"Please," Rabbi Bass objected as Dean got to work. He grabbed a large tube from his bag and made a circle on the floor, away from the Nazi. Why bother protecting him? "Necromancy is black magic. Evil. You mustn't go through with this."

Dean frowned. "No offense, rabbi, but you're the one who recommended him, remember?"

"This is not what I had in mind."

"Well, unless you've got a better idea, I need to find my brother." Dean urged him inside the circle, traded his machete for a shotgun, and glanced at Bobby. "Might as well consult the patriarch. If anyone knows where the Stynes are headed, it's gonna be him."

Bobby hesitated, unnerved by the rabbi's warning. He wasn't wrong. Necromancy… That had to be crossing a line. But what choice did they have? He sighed. "The things I do for you boys. All right. One smug, sadistic psycho coming up." He took a step back and tightened his grip on the talisman. "Contra omnipotentem obsecro hunc spiritum Monroe Frankenstein iuxta ad facientum voluntatem meum."

They did not have to wait long.

"Well, well, well…"

Turning, they saw a vigorous silver-haired blue-blood dressed in a nice gray suit. He did not look like an average ghost or spirit. In fact, he almost looked alive. Dean tensed, swiftly aiming his gun at the monster who tried stealing his brother and killing his father. They never got the chance to meet face-to-face, which made this encounter long overdue.

"Dean Winchester," Monroe said rapturously, sharing the sentiment. "I'm so pleased to finally make your acquaintance."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I pulled the invocation from Season 2_ _'s "Hollywood Babylon." I don't know Latin, and I have no idea how it translates, which is yet another reason why I don't get paid. Lol!_

 _ **Write me a review! Or else!**_


	9. The Safe House

**SPN**

 **(Toledo, Ohio … Friday, October 23, 2005)**

It was all Dean could do not to shoot rock salt at the thing, simply out of habit. He stood with Rabbi Bass inside the circle, with Bobby far to the right, and Torvald to the left, still handcuffed to his seat. Monroe Styne squared off directly in front of him, practically flesh and blood. He wasn't blinking in or out, and he wasn't affecting the temperature of the deserted food court. What was he, a revenant?

The confusion must have shown on Dean's face, and Monroe grinned. "Oh, I am a ghost, boy. Don't worry about that." He had a very thick southern drawl that brought Jacob to mind. "I'm just a powerful one. I mean, the thing you have to understand about reincarnation is that we do die before we're inevitably reborn. I've been a ghost many, many times, and I know all the secrets." He regarded Bobby in amusement. "You think you can control me with that talisman? Perhaps. For now. But you better not drop it, sir. Or I will retaliate."

"Hey!" Dean snapped angrily. No one threatened Bobby in front of him. "Let's get one thing straight. You're not hurting anyone ever again. You're gonna answer our questions, and then we're sending you straight back to hell, or wherever it is you spirits go, and you're never coming back, cause you didn't complete your damn ritual. Capisce?"

Monroe wasn't rattled by his assertion. "You take after your father, don't you, Dean? So fierce. So insolent. I wonder where Sammy gets his gentle nature from? He's such a sweet, submissive young man."

Dean's skin curled at the thought of his brother's condition last year. He had been traumatized. And now he was back with the bastards responsible. It made Dean sweat. "Sammy? Gentle? Oh, that's right. You barely got to know him before dad killed you. Or was it Doc Benton? That must have been humiliating."

"Bygones, my boy," Monroe assured him. "But you have questions!" His gaze flashed from Dean and Rabbi Bass over to Bobby, to Torvald, and back again. "No sign of your precious little family. I can only assume they're in trouble, and you're desperate. Now, that's just delicious." To emphasize his point, he licked his lips.

Dean seethed. Of course, he knew he couldn't demand answers without acknowledging the problem, but he wasn't prepared for Monroe's gibes. He didn't know if he could bear the bastard's response to Jacob's reprisal.

Fortunately, Bobby intervened. He positioned himself between the two, blocking Dean from Monroe's sight. "Let's skip the details and jump straight to the part where you tell us how to track down Jacob, Victor, and the rest of their lackeys. Our friends have already trashed your known addresses, so what's left? Somehow, you don't strike me as the type to hole up under a rock in the middle of nowhere, so where would they go for shelter?"

Monroe hesitated, but with Bobby holding the talisman, his hands were tied. "I suppose they wouldn't flee to Europe while they still have legacies to acquire, so with Dean running around, wild and free, they won't go far. Perhaps the safe house."

"Where's that?"

"Atlanta. But you won't be able to force your way inside." Monroe shrugged, feigning regret. "I mean, it's called a safe house for a reason. It occupies the space between realities, and without the proper entry spell, it's impenetrable. You would need to have friends in some very high places to gain access." Suddenly, Monroe vanished, reappearing on the other side of the room where he could once again observe Dean, who quickly turned to glare at him. "On the other hand, boy, if you were to announce yourself, they might very well open their doors and let you in, just like that. After all, you're very special."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Let's call that Plan B."

"What do we need for the entry spell?" Bobby asked, making Monroe grimace. He glared at the old hunter in obvious distaste.

"Opening the portal to the safe house requires an ancient obsidian mirror that has been consecrated with infant blood at midnight near the temple ruins of the god, Janus. In Rome."

Dean couldn't make it past 'infant blood' before he started cursing in frustration. Rabbi Bass buried his face in his hands, Torvald laughed, and Bobby shook his head. "That's a load of crap."

Monroe sighed. "The mirror reflects a new world. The blood provides new life. The time ushers in a new day. With such ingredients, the god of transitions—the god of gates and doorways—can manufacture a key to unlock the portal into the safe house. Yes, it's quite complicated, but that's part of the security system. It wouldn't be impenetrable if the key was easy to replicate, now would it?"

"Bobby…" Dean took a step toward his friend, but the hunter waved him back.

"Stay in the circle, Dean."

Rabbi Bass reached out to steady him as he stopped short. "Bobby, what the hell are we going to do now?"

"Not even an entitled high school drop-out who hates authority would dare dabble with such dark arts," Torvald interjected, his face twisted between scorn and delight. "You're never going to see your brother again!" Dean flinched despite himself, because a part of him was truly starting to fear that very possibility.

"Ahh…" Monroe grinned like a kid on Christmas. "I thought as much. So Sammy's back with his rightful family. All is well in the world." He and Torvald shared a look, then he glanced back at Dean. "What, are we not daunting enough for you? You had to make enemies of the Thule as well? You're in over your head, boy. You might as well surrender and beg for mercy."

Dean glowered at him silently. Meanwhile, Bobby ambled over to their weapons pile and picked up the machete. Testing its weight, he proceeded to Torvald's side and promptly severed his head from his body. It was such a quick and smooth execution that even Monroe appeared impressed.

Bobby smirked. "What gave you the impression we'd respond well to provocation? Stay on topic. What's the address to this safe house?"

In the days leading up to his death, Monroe had been so fixated on legacies that it was no wonder he now focused most of his attention on Dean. But the more Bobby badgered him, the more interested he became in his oppressor—and something about the way he stared at the hunter gave Dean a very bad feeling. "I'm sorry, but where do you fit into all this? Bobby? I understand the rabbi—someone had to acquaint Dean with the Thule for us to be here. But you? Surely you know the moment you lose that talisman, I will kill you. Why risk your life for the boy?"

"Answer the damn question."

Monroe narrowed his eyes. "As you command. 111 Monarch Avenue, off of West Paces Ferry Road in Buckhead—the finest district in Atlanta. Honestly, it's a bit metropolitan for my taste, but it's completely off the books, fully fortified, and well equipped. It does the job."

They were screwed. It had been eighteen hours, more or less, since the ambush at the motel, so even if Dean took an airplane, he still wouldn't be able to beat the Stynes to Atlanta. And if they managed to trap Sam inside that safe house, getting him out would be a nightmare.

Rabbi Bass continued to grip Dean's arm, supporting him, and he was ashamed to think he might need it. "Bobby, I've heard enough."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed. "Me too." Monroe crossed his arms and lingered defiantly. He wanted to hurt them badly—they could see it on his face—and he obviously wouldn't withdraw on his own. Perhaps they killed the necromancer prematurely… Or not. Bobby had remarkable instincts, and some things just came naturally to him. Holding up the talisman, he said, "Depello, phasmam."

And without delay, Monroe dissipated as swiftly as he came. Dean let out a sigh of relief, but it wasn't very strong.

"Where did you learn how to do that?" the rabbi asked in surprise. Torvald explained how to conjure the spirit, not how to banish it.

Bobby shrugged. "After so many years of experience, you learn how to improvise." He met Dean's gaze grimly. "We're going to take this one step at a time. We're going to clean up this mess, burn that body, and get out of here. Then we'll discuss our next move. You with me?"

"Like I have a choice?"

 _Damn it, Sammy…_ It was agonizing to think about what those bastards might be doing to his brother at that very moment. He could still hear his pain-filled cry at being shot in the leg. They didn't have time for this! They needed to rescue Sam. Yesterday. But how the hell were they going to pull that off?

 **SPN**

Darting through the shadows, Jessica rounded an immaculate hedge, straight into a massive courtyard; it featured the marble statue of a fierce two-headed bird. From a tall pedestal, with its wide, unfurled wings, it seemed ready to plunge on its prey like a man-eating monster—and for a heart-stopping moment, Jessica felt ensnared. Wouldn't she make a fine damsel in her blue knee-length dress with her silver strap heels and her perfectly curled hair, sparkling with rhinestones? The very thought was nauseating.

Eventually, she snapped out of her shock and turned, eager to find some other refuge, but her path was blocked. Elizabeth. Beautiful Elizabeth, clad in a flowing white princess gown with a fitted bodice, capped sleeves and a diamond tiara, tears brimming in her cerulean eyes.

"You think you can escape when I can't?" she asked severely.

Jessica shrank back, spotting a ceremonial knife in Elizabeth's right hand. "Please! I know you're not like the rest of them. We can help each other."

Elizabeth clucked her tongue and slowly advanced. "Unfortunately, darling, you're beyond helping. The moment you laid eyes on sweet little Sam, you were doomed."

Jessica bolted to the right, but didn't make it more than a few feet before she was swept up by an invisible current that carried her back to the pedestal. She was shoved against it with such crushing force that she groaned. Meanwhile, Elizabeth crossed over to her maliciously.

"It could be worse," she whispered sadly, stroking Jessica's face. "At least you won't be around to see what they have planned for your boyfriend." And with that, she brandished her knife and stabbed her victim through the chest.

 **SPN**

"NO!" Sam jerked upright, sweating and gasping for breath. Where the hell was he? When did he fall asleep? Where was Jess?

After a mild panic attack, his training kicked in, and he struggled to collect himself. The first thing he noticed was the environment—he lounged on a plush sofa in a bright room with giant windows and a tiled floor. The ceiling had to be at least twenty feet high with crown molding and a chandelier. Across from him, candles decorated an ornate mantel, and everywhere else, the furnishings were rich and traditional. Fit for HGTV.

Then, he noticed his company. Elizabeth. She was unconscious on the wingback chair next to him, wearing a floral dress and a pearl necklace. Her feet were bare, and her wrists were cuffed in front of her—reminding Sam of his own predicament. Except his feet were bandaged—they still stung from his escape attempt—and his wrists were cuffed behind him. But what troubled him more than the pain, more than the restraints, were his clothes.

He had been changed into black pants with a dress shirt under a cashmere V-neck sweater. Somehow, they were the perfect size. What the hell?

Flushing, he swung his legs around and gingerly set his feet on the floor—the Stynes might have healed his bullet wound, but apparently they weren't going to reward bad behavior. After all, his feet wouldn't be in such poor shape if he had stayed in the limousine. At least the cuts and bruises were relatively minor—they could have been worse, and after bracing himself, he was able to stand. Time to get out of here!

He barely made it three feet before a woman appeared in the threshold. "Sam!" she said, smiling affectionately, and he froze, dumbfounded. He had never seen her before—not that he could remember—but he instantly recognized her from old family photos. His mom. Mary Winchester, in a teal sheath dress with her golden hair pinned up elaborately. Alive. How could she be alive? "I was starting to think you'd sleep through the whole afternoon. How do you feel, sweetheart?"

He recoiled, falling back on the sofa. No. This wasn't right. His mom was dead. "Who are you?"

"Oh, Sammy…" She entered the room and took a seat next to him, pressing her hand on his knee before he could move. "To think you were raised without a mother. It breaks my heart. But all that's over now. I'm here, and I'm going to protect you. You don't have to worry about your brothers, your cousins… Not as long as I'm around. I promise. Those days of loneliness and neglect are officially behind you."

Her voice was deceptively gentle, and Sam shuddered, averting his eyes. "Who are you?" he asked again, weakly.

"Her name is Caroline," a small voice whispered from the adjacent chair. Elizabeth had woken up, and though she remained frail and vulnerable, her expression turned angry and bitter. "And she's not your mother. She's mine." Sam nervously watched her test her handcuffs while Caroline sighed.

"Why must you always be so rude, Lilibet?" she asked with forced patience. "I am the matriarch of this family, which makes me both of your mothers." She patted Sam's leg, which was more than he could take. He launched back to his feet and scrambled away from her.

Elizabeth stiffened in dawning realization. "Are you blocking my powers?"

"Of course I am, dear. After your conduct this morning, I had no choice. You're grounded, and trust me when I say you won't enjoy the punishment your father has planned." Caroline went from scolding her daughter to smiling at Sam like flipping a switch. "You know, you and Lilibet have a lot in common. You're both such smart, gifted runaways. For your sake, Sammy, I hope you'll learn from her mistakes and keep your attitude in check. It won't do you any favors."

Sam stared at her, unsure how to respond. Was she crazy? Or was she toying with him? Maybe both? He glanced uncertainly at Elizabeth, who might very well be his only ally in this place—especially if she knew how John and Dean teamed up with her boyfriend last year. They weren't necessarily on the same side, but they shared the same enemies. Great. He couldn't hold his nightmares against her—they were only nightmares—but how was he supposed to trust someone who triggered a devastating pileup on that highway, sacrificing countless lives, all to spite her family?

He couldn't. There was just no way. He was in this alone, and with a deep breath, he mustered his resolve to challenge Caroline. "You're not her. Why bother pretending? I can tell the difference."

"Yes, I'm sure you can." She stood and stepped towards him—he backed away uneasily. "In fact, that's the whole point. We're trying to undermine any attachments you still have to your previous family. This form? This body?" She indicated herself. "It's to ensure you think of me instead of Mary Winchester whenever her face crosses your mind. And I have to say, it's a lovely face." Sam watched in horror as she scratched her nails down the side of her cheek, drawing blood. It was psychological warfare, and if prolonged, it would undoubtedly prove effective. He had to get out of here.

Barreling past her, he made a break for the gaping doorway—and to his surprise, she didn't stop him. His wrists were still bound, and on some level he knew he wouldn't get far, but so what? He had to try.

Beyond the living room, he saw a magnificent foyer that could rival the lobby of a 5-star hotel, but the second he crossed the threshold, he found himself back where he began. In the living room, near the mantel, facing Caroline. He faltered, feeling dizzy. "What?"

She set her bloody hand on her hip. "Going somewhere, Sam? I should point out this house has protective warding, so you can't just leave without permission. If you try smashing through a window, or breaking through a door, you'll only damage yourself. And we wouldn't want that. So until you start earning some privileges around here, you might as well make yourself comfortable. The same goes for you, Lilibet."

They were trapped. Sam gave his surroundings a second glance; how long would this room be his prison? It was a large, impressive room with plenty of seating, fine china on the coffee table, a piano on the corner, and Raphael's _Portrait of a Young Man_ hanging on the wall. Still, it was oppressive, and with the visage of his mother taunting him, he thought he might suffocate.

"Are the handcuffs necessary?" Elizabeth asked, holding her wrists up indignantly. "I mean, we're obviously not going anywhere, and it's not like we can hurt you. You're too powerful for that."

"True," Caroline acknowledged. "But don't they make a profound statement?" She noticed Sam taking stock of the room. "You won't find anything to pick the locks. Those handcuffs are special. William took the liberty of adding supernatural reinforcements. Honestly, there's nothing more convenient than magic. If you behave yourself, I'd be happy to teach you."

Sam shook his head in disbelief. "Are you kidding? I don't want to learn anything from you!"

"Perhaps not now," Caroline said nonchalantly. "Perhaps not a week from now. But don't fret. With the right pressure, anything can break, and I have every faith in our ability to recondition you well before the demon comes to call."

Sam winced, but didn't reply. His attention had been drawn by William's arrival. Jacob and Victor followed on his heels. At some point, they had removed their jackets and were now dressed in business casual with their sleeves rolled up. Clearly relaxed and at home in this stately mansion, it seemed their only concern was whether to play with Sam or Elizabeth first.

"Caroline!" William frowned at his wife's marred cheek. "Arthur Fontaine will be here shortly with our little Cyrus! Are you going to…?" He gestured vaguely at his face, and she took the hint, laughing blithely.

"Yes, I should freshen up." She cast Sam a final, devoted look. "I'm so glad you're home, sweetheart. Trust me. You're going to love it here." And with that, she gave William a kiss and bounded from the room.

Almost instantly, the atmosphere changed—Caroline's friendliness was replaced with malice. Good cop, bad cop. Sam watched warily as the three men approached—William stern, Victor irate, and Jacob ravenous. So much for the matriarch's protection. "Let me guess. I'm supposed to associate that woman's presence with safety, and her absence with torture. You want me developing some kind of sick dependency on her. Is that it?"

William's eyes lit up. "Now that is clever. I'm glad you came up with that, son. It shows you're already thinking like a Styne." Sam shrank back, repulsed. "Alas, the truth is we don't want you depending on anyone. We want you sharp, and angry, and strong, just like the demon ordered."

Sam caught his breath. "You mean the demon that killed my mother?"

"Caroline is your mother," William snapped. "And don't make me repeat myself. Now." He glanced over at Elizabeth, who returned his gaze meekly. "Victor and I need to have a chat with Lilibet regarding consequences, and Jacob, well… He's been waiting quite patiently for an opportunity to abuse someone. He's been so deprived." Jacob grinned and took an eager step forward, but William's arm cut him off. "Careful. We have company on the way, and Caroline just cleaned him up. Avoid the face, and don't draw blood."

Jacob nodded. "Yes sir."

Alarm spread through Sam like wildfire. He struggled against his handcuffs, retreating frantically as his captor bore down on him. "Dean was right. You are a coward."

Unruffled, Jacob grabbed him by the neck and dropped him to the floor. Sam lashed out with his legs, but Jacob wrestled his way on top of them, pinning them down with his full weight. He squeezed Sam's throat, practically salivating as his victim writhed and strained for breath.

Meanwhile, William and Victor sat side by side on the sofa. They began lecturing Elizabeth. Sam could hear their voices, but couldn't make out their words. His head began to spin, and he almost welcomed unconsciousness, but Jacob wasn't that generous. He released Sam's neck and proceeded to jab his shoulders with just enough ferocity to bruise him, but not cripple him. Soon, he was aiming for the chest, then the stomach.

Tears filled Sam's eyes, though he somehow managed to keep from crying out. This wasn't going to end; there was nothing he could do to stop it; but he wasn't going to lose hope; not that easily. His dad would find him. Or Dean. He just had to hold on a bit longer.

Suddenly, Jacob paused and slid off Sam's legs. Both arms snaked around his torso, and the next thing Sam knew, he was sitting up in Jacob's fierce embrace with his head resting against the bastard's shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he asked, hating the quiver in his voice as Jacob raked his fingers through his hair.

"We're brothers, Sammy," he said. "Aren't I allowed to hug my brother?"

"Let go!"

Jacob chuckled. "Not yet. Maybe in a minute or two."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _This just might be the creepiest thing I_ _'ve ever written... I hope you like it. Send me your thoughts. I'm desperate for reviews!_


	10. The Dinner Party

**SPN**

 **(Omaha, Nebraska … Friday, October 23, 2005)**

Special Agent Nathan Findley had to admit, despite the circumstances, it felt good to be back with his team. This six of them—Victor Henriksen, Calvin Reidy, Joel Paulson, Brian Hale, Connor Burckle, and Findley himself—were by now well versed in the supernatural, and they huddled together in a spacious conference room within the Omaha field office to deliberate over their impossible case. It wasn't looking good.

"Okay," Henriksen said. "Let's review the time line. Wednesday, Elizabeth escapes prison in some kind of freak earthquake. Not exactly subtle. Her cousin, on the other hand, could have been gone from day one, for all we know. Somehow, he managed to find a replacement and swapped out all his records—everything we have on file—with the substitute's information. No one noticed his breakout till I came to visit yesterday. A feat like that takes skill, resources, and probably outside help."

Findley nodded. "When Dean called last night, he told me Sam was kidnapped by five of the Stynes. Jacob, some guy named Victor, and three others. From what Jacob told him, we can assume he also escaped on Wednesday night, and that thirteen months in isolation really amped up his sadistic side."

That phone call had troubled Findley more than he cared to admit. He was supposed to be calm, professional, impartial… Nothing could compromise an agent's performance quite like personal involvement. But the Winchesters—and Sam in particular—were different. They had been his primary focus for over a year, and during that time, he grew fond of them. He liked them, he pitied them, and the thought of Sam in danger honestly upset him. Why wouldn't Dean accept his help?

Because twenty-six years of experience taught him that even the most well-meaning of authorities were either oblivious or incompetent, and Findley had yet to prove him wrong.

"So Jacob escapes," Henriksen said, "and recapturing Sam's his first order of business. Why?"

"Vengeance," Reidy suggested. "That's why he left Dean behind. To torment them."

"But it's more than that," Findley added. "The Stynes think Sam's special, and according to Elizabeth, we could be dealing with several interested parties who'd like to get their hands on him. He's an asset, and they might be able to profit from his capture."

Hale tapped his fingers on the conference table. "That's what I still don't understand. I mean, have we seen any evidence that Sam—or any of the Winchesters—has any kind of… what do you want to call it? Supernatural proclivities?" They all glanced at Findley, who shook his head. "I mean, there's literally nothing to suggest he's anything other than a regular young man. If we're to believe Elizabeth, his duress could spark an unspeakable, monstrous cataclysm, but how? What's the deal? Would it really be the end of the world if he's compromised?"

"Who cares?" Paulson asked critically. "He's a twenty-two year old boy who never asked for this. He's a victim, and we're going to make rescuing him our priority simply cause it's the right thing to do. God, my own kids are older than he is." The thought of his children in Sam's place obviously sickened him, and Findley was glad to know someone else shared his sense of urgency.

Unfortunately, finding and rescuing Sam would be easier said than done. They had spent the last twenty-four hours chasing every lead they had, without success. According to Ash—Ellen Harvelle's computer-hacking friend—three of the Stynes had entered the country from Europe under the names Henry Clerval, Alphonse Beaufort and Caroline Beaufort—identities stolen from the novel _Frankenstein_. Go figure. But once they left the airport, they seemed to disappear.

Paulson, Hale and Burckle had hoped to intercept them in Shreveport where Jacob's little brother, Cyrus, lived with the family lawyer, Arthur Fontaine, but they arrived too late—Arthur and his wife, Paige, had already absconded with the child. Every trail went cold at the motel in Cedar Rapids, leaving them with one potential advantage. Jessica Moore. And it did not take long for Hale to bring her up.

"I hate to say it, but if that girl's their next target, then she might be the best way—the only way—to draw them out."

Paulson bristled. "You want to use a twenty-one year old college girl as bait against an evil, magical family like the Stynes? Please tell me you're joking?"

"I never said I wanted—"

"Ellen won't allow it," Burckle observed even as Findley asked, "Do you have any idea how the Winchesters would react if they found out?"

"That's enough!" Henriksen barked, and they all grew silent, visibly chagrined. "Hale's right. We need to weigh every option, whether we like it or not. Who knows? The girl might want to help. Otherwise, she'll either be cooped up here or in a hotel under tight security for the foreseeable future, and she's not gonna want that. It certainly doesn't hurt to ask."

Findley shook his head. "I'm not so sure. Dean specifically warned us to keep her out of harm's way. If we want him to trust us…" He trailed off, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. Fishing it out, he examined the caller ID. Unknown. He glanced questioningly at Henriksen, who nodded, and therefore answered. "Special Agent Nathan Findley."

"Findley? It's Dean."

Surprised, Findley felt his stomach clench. This couldn't be good; the young hunter didn't want to have anything to do with the FBI. Why would he be calling? "Dean. We were just talking about you. Let me put you on speaker."

"No!" Dean objected loudly. "You put me on speaker, and I'll hang up."

Findley blinked. "What? Why?"

"I can only take so many special agents at a time."

There was no mistaking the ridicule in his voice, and Findley rolled his eyes. "All right. No speaker. Fine." He could see the disappointment on Henriksen's face. "What can I do for you, Dean?"

"The Stynes have a safe house in Atlanta. 111 Monarch Avenue off West Paces Ferry Road."

West Paces Ferry Road? Findley could hardly believe it. "Isn't that in Buckhead?" Or, as some liked to say, the Beverly Hills of the south? How could the Stynes have real estate in Buckhead without the FBI knowing about it? Oh yeah. Magic.

"That's what my sources tell me," Dean confirmed. "And it's probably where the Stynes are keeping Sam. You won't be able to infiltrate the damn place—technically, it's not even part of our reality. It occupies the space between realities. We'd have to open a portal to get in. Don't ask."

As if Findley could even formulate a question! Space between realities? This supernatural crap was starting to piss him off. "Okay. So…?"

"So, since you've clearly mastered the art of surveillance, I thought you and your pals might keep tabs on the place, and if anyone comes out, shoot them."

"Shoot them?"

"Right in the head," Dean insisted. "Trust me. They are too dangerous to fool around with. If you get the chance, you kill them. Don't hesitate. You hear me?"

On the one hand, Findley was pleased to finally have the hunter's recognition, but on the other, he was talking about assassination. Findley couldn't blame him—the Stynes had his little brother—but they just couldn't go around murdering people. Not even criminals. That was crossing a line. Still, he could afford to play along. "Okay. I understand. Meanwhile, what's your next move?"

"Figuring out the best way to open the portal, but like I said, don't ask. You don't want to know."

"Probably not," Findley agreed. He glanced over at Hale, wondering if he should broach what was sure to be a touchy subject. Might as well. "Listen, Dean. It's been suggested that we recruit Jessica for help. Since we know which city they're in…"

"Are you out of your damn mind?"

Findley smiled mirthlessly. "Yeah. That's pretty much the reaction I expected."

"Look, I get it," Dean assured him. "She's a big girl who can make her own decisions, and if she's brave enough to risk her own life to catch the bad guys, I can respect that. But it's not just her life on the line. It's Sammy's spirit. Why do you think the Stynes care about her in the first place? Cause Sam cares about her. And if I know my brother, right now he's doing everything in his power to fight, to escape. He's a trained hunter, and he'll keep acting like one as long as he's got breath—unless the Stynes get their hands on Jessica. She's his Achilles' heel, and if they can use her against him, he'll break. You can't let that happen. Please."

It was disconcerting to hear Dean of all people pleading with him. Findley didn't much care for it. "Okay, you've made your point. We'll keep her safe. I promise."

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Friday, October 23, 2005)**

Sam remained wallowing on the floor long after Jacob, William and Victor left him there to welcome their guests. His entire body ached from the neck down, and while Jacob had merely bruised him, it still felt like he'd been run over. Dazed and shaken, he struggled to recover, and took advantage of his seclusion to drop his guard and whimper.

Honestly, he forgot all about Elizabeth until she knelt down next to him. "I wish I could help you," she whispered sympathetically. "But even if my powers weren't blocked, healing spells were never my specialty." He flinched when she brushed the hair from his eyes. "Come on. You'll be more comfortable over here."

Since her wrists were cuffed in front of her, she had the mobility to help him sit up, and for some reason, she was gentle about it. Her face betrayed several conflicting emotions—anger, fear, grief, disgust—but she didn't take it out on him, and despite his best judgment, he appreciated that. Together, they managed to get him on his feet, and they staggered to the sofa. Sam had to admit, it was better than the cold, hard tile.

"Just so we're on the same page," Elizabeth said. "We're in the middle of Atlanta, in a magical safe house that sits between realities. My dear mother wasn't lying when she said we need permission to leave. Even if we could get outside, there's nowhere for us to go. Just a whole lot of nothing. Emptiness."

Sam thought back to the incident on the highway. "All those people…" His voice still quivered. "On the road this morning… Your dad used a vanishing spell to shift them from our reality… to somewhere else…"

Elizabeth nodded, unsurprised. "They would have been sent all the way across the gap. We're only halfway." Her indifference to their fate reminded Sam why he couldn't trust her, and he looked away sullenly. She must have read his response. "Listen, Sam. My cousin Victor mixed some kind of magic with holy oil to burn Thomas alive. He planted a vision in my head to make me watch. Imagine if it had been someone you loved. Imagine if it was your girlfriend."

 _Jessica._ Sam shuddered, picturing the scene from his nightmares—Elizabeth stabbing her with some kind of ceremonial knife.

"I don't know if Thomas survived it or not," she said with tears in her eyes. "He's supposed to be immortal, but Victor's magic is strong. When I saw that, I just… I lost control. That rampage this morning, it was a mistake, and I'd take it back if I could. I'm sorry. I wasn't myself."

If she was sorry, Sam couldn't help but think it was for no other reason than her capture, but he didn't say as much. Instead, he fiddled with his handcuffs and breathed through the pain. Caroline claimed his restraints were magically reinforced, which meant he wouldn't be able to slip free. At least he had more liberty here than he did back at the Stynes' Shreveport estate, where they had him chained to the floor in the attic. Or maybe it was just the illusion of more liberty.

"What do they want with me, Elizabeth?" he eventually asked, dreading the response. Obviously, they wanted to adopt him and groom him for whatever catastrophe Azazel had planned, but what did that mean? "You read my palm. You called me the Holy Grail. Why? What did you see?"

Elizabeth hesitated, staring at her bare feet. The question made her tense, and the color drained from her face. Damn. If the thought of his so-called fate was still making her sick, it had to be worse than he feared. "I can't…" she spoke haltingly. "I shouldn't…" The demon specifically said not to spoil the surprise. "Sam, knowing the truth won't do you any good. It will just distract you, scare you, it might even push you over the edge."

"But—"

"Forget it!" They stared at each other; Sam's shoulders sagged, and Elizabeth sighed. "Let me tell you what else I saw when I read your palm. I saw your love for John and Dean. And when I read Dean's palm, I saw his love for you. That's what you need to concentrate on. That's your best defense. Something I learned about fortune-telling a long time ago, it's not set in stone. You can fight it. But it's not going to be easy, especially not for you, and the more you doubt yourself, the harder it becomes. So if you want to screw my relatives, if you want to screw that demon, then don't dwell on the future. Dwell on your family."

Her sincerity stunned him, and he sank back on the sofa in bewilderment. Maybe he could trust her? Or maybe she was every bit as selfish and vindictive as he thought, and she was simply using him to defy their mutual enemies. Either way, her words made sense. "You know, you're pretty good at the whole guidance counseling thing. Maybe you should've stayed in Lily Dale."

"I tell myself that every day," she confessed. But they couldn't change the past, and speculating on how things might be different wouldn't solve anything. Especially when Caroline reappeared in the threshold, still disguised as Mary Winchester, her scratched face fully healed.

"All right, you two," she said buoyantly. "It's time for dinner!" She gestured for them to join her, and while Elizabeth dutifully stood up, Sam froze. Dinner? Of course, he knew better than to hope they'd let him starve himself. Back in Shreveport, Rhett Styne had force fed him cold soup from an army canteen. It wasn't a pleasant experience, and something told him a meal in this house would only be worse.

"I'm really not that hungry," he apprehensively assured the woman.

Caroline sighed before smiling benignly. "I don't blame you for having a poor appetite, but after everything you've been through, sweetheart, it's important for you to replenish your strength. So I really must insist."

The last thing Sam wanted was to humor her, but knowing the layout of the house would make escaping that much easier. He should familiarize himself with as much of it as possible. Then again, the thought of food made him queasy, and he knew Jacob wasn't done tormenting him. The only thing waiting for him at the dining table would be more humiliation. He shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but honestly, I might throw up, and no one wants to see that."

Her smile disappeared. "That's enough, Sam. Don't make me call your father in here."

He flushed angrily. "I wish you would! My real father, anyway."

As if on cue, William wandered into the room, glancing from Sam to his wife. "What seems to be the problem, Caroline?"

She crossed her arms. "Sammy's not cooperating."

"And I'm not going to cooperate!" he retorted recklessly. "You can threaten me, you can torture me, you can do whatever the hell you want to me, but there's no way I'm playing along with your perverted little game! I'm not your son, and my name is Sam _Winchester_!"

Elizabeth bowed her head, letting her golden hair fall across her face to conceal a slight smirk. William and Caroline, however, were not amused—or if they were, they did a good job at hiding it.

"You have two choices here, Sam." William spoke softly and slowly, his expression calm, but extremely dangerous. When he stepped up to the sofa and leaned over his captive, Sam couldn't help but shrink back. "You can behave yourself and join us for a nice family dinner or you can stay here for the remainder of the evening. And tonight, while the rest of the city slumbers, Freddie and Earl will sneak out and find a house with a precious little girl, and they will snatch her from her bed, and they will bring her to this very room, and they will teach you a thing or two about perverted little games. Do you understand me?"

"No!" The word slipped out before Sam fully processed William's question, and then his heart skipped a beat. "I mean yes… yes, I understand… Please don't…" Terrified, he shook his head. It occurred to him that his reaction to the vanishing spell back on the highway had exposed one of his greatest weaknesses—he could endure his own suffering, but not the suffering of others, and William was not above using it against him. Damn.

Victorious, the bastard grinned. "Now what do you say to your mother?"

Trembling, Sam averted his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry…?" William prompted.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." He couldn't bring himself to call her 'mother,' and fortunately they let it slide. For now, anyway.

"That's more like it," William said, patting Sam's shoulder in approval. Then, he hoisted him from the sofa and they followed Caroline and Elizabeth out of the living room. As far as Sam could tell, nothing was said or done to override the protective warding—it seemed to operate based wholly on his captors' whims. Not helpful.

They proceeded into the grand foyer where a tiered fountain bubbled in the middle of the marble floor, directly beneath a crystal chandelier. Two staircases with wrought-iron rails led up to the landing, and evenly spaced along the walls were impressive floral arrangements. The only thing missing was the main entrance—when Sam glanced in its general direction, he beheld nothing but a dark, shadowy floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Jacob stood waiting on the far side of the foyer where he held open the door to the dining room. Caroline and Elizabeth entered first, and as William followed with Sam in tow, Jacob reached out to rub his back. "Hope you're hungry, kiddo."

Sam refused to acknowledge him.

Unsurprisingly, the dining room was just as regal as the rest of the mansion. The long table could seat twenty people on upholstered chairs, and was decorated with glittering candelabras, red candles, and jack-o'-lanterns—Halloween was only a week away. Several covered serving trays beckoned with the smell of seafood, but so far no one had claimed their seats. Victor stood by the mantel, entertaining a middle-aged couple—Arthur Fontaine and his wife?—while Earl and Freddie showed off their guns to an awkward little boy—seven or eight years old—who wore a pair of browline glasses.

"Arthur! Paige!" Caroline exclaimed in delight, gliding over to her guests. "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting!" She chuckled at their obvious perplexity. "You probably don't even recognize me, what with my extreme makeover. I hope you like it. It took a lot of work."

The woman—a tall brunette with bobbed hair, a pointy chin, and a purple wrap dress—gave her hostess a closer inspection. "Caroline? You look stunning!" They embraced while William stepped forward to shake Arthur's hand.

Sam quickly tuned out their small talk and found himself instead observing the boy. He must be the 'little Cyrus' William spoke of earlier. Pale and thin, he wore an argyle sweater vest over a short-sleeved shirt, with a big mechanical watch on his tiny, fragile wrist. He seemed fascinated by Earl and Freddie's weaponry—but only in the way all children are fascinated by anything remotely off limits. There was something strangely innocent about him; he was a Styne, but he was also young, and from what Sam understood, he had been outside his family's influence for over a year. Granted, the Fontaines didn't seem much better, but still…

"Cyrus, why don't you come over here a minute," Jacob called out to the boy, having noticed where Sam's attention strayed. Immediately, all conversation died, and everyone turned to watch as Cyrus timidly approached his elder. He didn't look scared, just shy, and Jacob crouched down in front of him so they were eye-level. "Cyrus, do you know who this is?" He indicated Elizabeth.

"Yes sir," the boy said meekly.

"Who is she?"

"My cousin, Lilibet." Apparently, Cyrus didn't enjoy the spotlight, and he shot a nervous glance at Arthur, who nodded his approval.

"That's right, little brother," Jacob said proudly, drawing back his gaze. "Now, why do you reckon she's in handcuffs?"

"Because she broke the rules," Cyrus said, as if reciting from a script. "And she's in time out." Elizabeth fumed, but somehow managed to bite her tongue. Apparently, her father's lecture about consequences remained heavy on her mind.

"Good!" Jacob exclaimed before turning to indicate Sam. "Now, do you know who this is?"

Two wide green eyes peered up at the prisoner before snapping back to Jacob. "Yes sir."

"And?" When the boy hesitated, Jacob nudged his shoulder. "Speak up, Cy."

"Yes sir," he repeated, bowing his head. "His name's Sam, and we are adopting him into our family because his father was neglecting him. But Jacob…" He suddenly met his brother's gaze with a furrowed brow. "If his father was neglecting him, why would he kill our dad to get him back?"

"My dad wasn't—!" Sam stopped short at the sight of William's withering stare. Speaking out of turn did not qualify as behaving himself. He grimaced, even as an odd thought crossed his mind. By killing Monroe, had John orphaned this boy? He was only seven or eight years old!

Jacob sighed. "Actually, Cyrus, it wasn't neglect. It was negligence. Do you know what that means?"

Cyrus shook his head. "No sir."

"It means John wasn't fulfilling his parental responsibilities. Sam has a remarkable future ahead of him, but he's not ready, because John's been holding him back. And their relationship is so dysfunctional that Sam would rather wilt under his father's suppression than embrace his true potential. So you see, our daddy wanted to rescue him, to liberate him, and John killed him for it because he won't allow anyone or anything to help Sam thrive. Now what do you think of that?"

Cyrus gawked up at Sam not in sadistic delight, but genuine dismay. "Will he kill us too?"

Jacob laughed at the thought. "Well, he's definitely going to try, but not to worry. We're perfectly safe here. Besides, don't you think it's worth the risk to deliver a poor young man from abuse? We'll teach him how a proper family treats each other, and we'll prepare him for his destiny. Someone has to."

"Yes sir." Cyrus nodded uncertainly, though no one seemed to notice his discomfort. Jacob ruffled his tidy brown hair and straightened back up, smirking at Sam. His expression seemed to say, 'See how easily we can manipulate the truth?' And it was only William's threat about kidnapping a little girl that kept Sam from commenting.

Meanwhile, Caroline led her guests toward the prisoners. "Arthur, Paige, you remember Elizabeth, don't you?" The three of them traded pleasantries, albeit begrudgingly on Elizabeth's part. Then, they all turned to regard Sam, who looked away. "And here we have our newest son. Say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine, Sammy."

It took all his discipline not to roll his eyes. "Hello," he nevertheless obeyed.

Arthur grinned. "I've heard so much about you, boy. What a privilege it is! I'd shake your hand, but…" He trailed off, and Sam wondered how they expected him to eat with his wrists cuffed behind his back.

"Oh!" Caroline jumped, as if reading his mind. "How silly of me!" She snapped her fingers, and Sam felt his restraints disengage; they dropped to the floor, and suddenly his arms were free. Relief coursed through his muscles, and he would have liked nothing better than to retaliate, but he was outnumbered and surrounded. Ironically, the more leeway they gave him, the more trapped he became. If he chose to fight, not only would he lose, he'd also be subjected to a crime he couldn't bear.

"There we go," Arthur said, holding out his hand. Sam hesitated, but under William's menacing supervision, he didn't have a choice. He took the bastard's hand, and Arthur squeezed it tighter than necessary. "I'm impressed, Caroline. He's so deferential—much more than I expected." Sam flinched. "How long has he been in your care?"

"Not long at all," was her cheerful reply. "At this rate, in a few more days, he'll be all ours."

Sam yanked his hand back and sulked, much to everyone's amusement. Everyone, that is, except for Cyrus, who watched in confusion.

"Now then," said Caroline. "Shall we eat?"

 **SPN**

 _ **Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! I love the feedback, so please keep it up!**_


	11. Private Quarters

**SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Friday, October 23, 2005)**

They took their seats at the far side of the dining room table—it could accommodate twenty people, but since they only had eleven in their party, they didn't bother spreading out. William presided at the end with Caroline to his right and Arthur to his left. Next to Caroline came Elizabeth, then Frankenstein, then Sam, then Freddie. Next to Arthur came Paige, then Jacob, then Cyrus, then Earl.

The place settings were formal with bone china dinnerware and a generous number of silver knives, forks and spoons. Having grown up on the road, eating a healthy diet of Lucky Charms and mac and cheese, Sam wasn't used to such extravagances, but thankfully he still remembered the basic etiquette from a high school home ec class. Right now, the less attention he drew to himself, the better.

Not that the Stynes were following the standard rules. They seemed to have their own way of doing things. Once everyone was settled, Frankenstein picked up an ornate hand bell and gave it a ring. Moments later, a line of four tuxedoed servants entered the room—Sam, Cyrus and the Fontaines all shuddered at the sight of them. Zombies? They had ashen skin, blank eyes, and disgusting hair; they smelled of decay.

Of course. Why wouldn't Frankenstein surround himself with an entourage of his grisly monsters? They weren't quite how Shelley described the original creature, but obviously they were assembled from different corpses, so they couldn't be expected to look the same. More than likely, Frankenstein made them repulsive on purpose, just for show.

"Oh, Victor, you've outdone yourself!" Caroline exclaimed enthusiastically. "They're marvelous!" While William and Freddie heartily agreed, Arthur studied the monsters suspiciously and Paige covered her mouth with a napkin. Despite their friendship with the Stynes, they were suddenly out of their element, unsure how to respond. From what Sam could tell, they were two ordinary people who managed to ingratiate themselves with the magical family, no doubt for their own advancement. After all, the Stynes were very wealthy and very powerful. But now, they seemed to regret that friendship—or at least, Paige did. Arthur was quick to recover.

The monsters—zombies?—undead corpses?—whatever they were called—came around the table and stiffly reached over to remove the lids from the serving trays. Sam noticed he wasn't the only one who gagged under their proximity. Even Elizabeth wrinkled her nose.

Great. As if a handful of Stynes and a warded house weren't enough to escape from, now he had to contend with the family's evil underlings.

They were promptly served an assortment of soups, salads, seafood platters, crab cakes, and catfish. The smell did not complement the stench of rotting flesh, and Sam fought the urge to vomit. Next they were poured water, tea and wine. Satisfied, Frankenstein waved his hand, and the monsters filed back out the way they came. Sam hoped—but doubted—that would be the last he ever saw of them.

"You've been busy since you arrived in the states, Victor," Jacob casually observed. "I mean, I can't imagine you brought those creatures on the plane with you. So how long did it take to construct them?"

Frankenstein eyed his cousin haughtily. "Not long at all. Once I collected the necessary components, the rest was quick and simple. And luckily, I had Earl's assistance with the preparations. I assure you, Jacob, my little pet project did not delay your jailbreak, and even if it did, you have to admit, they're nice to have around. Definitely worth the inconvenience." Turning in his seat, Frankenstein addressed Sam. "And what do you think of the 'help,' little brother?"

He clenched his fists and stared at his food, but couldn't ignore a direct question. Not if he wanted to placate William. "They're not that interesting," he grumbled. "Just some mindless drones." Did that make them more dangerous, or less?

"Oh, they're not mindless," Frankenstein countered amiably. "Far from it. However, experience has taught them the value of obedience. In time, you'll learn as well."

With that, the family and their guests began to eat—everyone except Sam. He still doubted they'd let him starve, and he was only making things more difficult for himself by resisting, but his instincts were all on high alert and he couldn't bring himself to take a bite—for more than one reason. Fortunately, Frankenstein was busy monopolizing the conversation, describing all the monsters he had at his disposal back in Europe, and Sam seemed to fade into the background. Only Cyrus, who sat directly across from him, paid him any attention, but at least he had the decency not to point out Sam's lack of an appetite.

Odd… The more Frankenstein rambled, the more Jacob glowered. It was the first sign of tension between them, and while they were clearly loyal to each other, Sam knew from experience that not all families got along. What exactly was the quality of their relationship? They were close in age—though Frankenstein had a few years on Jacob—and judging by their seating arrangements, close in status. Monroe had been the patriarch of the American branch, but now William presided at the head of the table. So if something happened to him, who would seize his position? Definitely not Earl or Freddie!

Did that mean Jacob and Frankenstein were rivals? And more importantly, could Sam use that against them?

"Excuse me, Victor," William suddenly said, interrupting a story about grave robbings. "But I believe now might be an excellent time for us to make our little announcement, wouldn't you agree?"

Frankenstein's face lit up. "Yes sir!"

All eyes turned to watch as William reached over to squeeze Caroline's hand. They smiled lovingly; then William cleared his throat. "Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say this past year has been grievous. We've endured tragic loss and unspeakable injustice. Our family will never be the same. But that's behind us now. We are on the path to recovery and retribution, and nothing—nothing!—shall prevent us from restoring our honor. So, to usher in a bright new era, we think it fitting to celebrate with a sign of renewal. We have spoken with Victor, and he agrees, that a week from Sunday, on the first of November, there shall be a wedding! He will reclaim his bride, our darling Lilibet, and through their union, the Styne family will reaffirm its greatness and nobility."

Throughout his speech, Elizabeth paled, but once the room filled with applause and congratulations, she flushed furiously. "Absolutely not!" She sprang to her feet and glared at her father. "I love Thomas! And you expect me to marry the asshole who burned him alive not two days ago? I refuse! And unlike Sam, there is nothing you can threaten me with to change my mind."

While everyone else regarded her in either shock or disapproval, Sam glanced quickly at Cyrus. The boy was pressed up against the back of his chair, obviously terrified.

An unruly daughter…

Two competitive cousins…

And a skittish child…

For all their talk, and all their spells, the Stynes had their share of weaknesses, and if Sam was smart and careful, he might actually have a chance at beating them.

"Oh, Lilibet," Caroline said sweetly. "Do you honestly think we need your consent? You will pledge yourself to Victor in just over a week, there's no question of that. The only question is how much of your dignity will be lost between now and then."

Growling, Elizabeth lashed out in the only way she could. She swept her plates and cups off the table, she overturned the nearest serving tray, and she grabbed a fork, brandishing it against Frankenstein. But before she could stab him in the eye, he caught her wrist, holding her attack at bay. She screamed as he stood up, and a second later he twisted her around, shoving her back flat onto the table. With his free hand, he grabbed her neck and squeezed—there was no mistaking the excitement in his eyes.

Sam acted on impulse. It wasn't that he liked or trusted Elizabeth—and she certainly didn't deserve his sympathy—but that didn't mean he could sit idly by and watch her be abused. He launched himself the bastard, pulling him off the girl and punching him in the face. Freddie was instantly on his heels, so Sam whipped around, grabbed him, and used his momentum to propel him into Frankenstein. Both men stumbled backwards and Sam helped Elizabeth off the table—she seemed startled by his interference.

"That's enough!" William barked while Frankenstein and Freddie regained their balance. They both shot Sam dirty looks as he and Elizabeth shied away. Fighting would get them nowhere—Sam's body had taken more than its share of beatings since his capture, and he was in no condition to challenge the lot of them. Running would be just as pointless—they had nowhere to go. Honestly, on second thought, he should have stayed in his seat. It wasn't like Elizabeth would ever repay the favor. Why did he have to go and play hero?

"Now Sam," William said after a beat. "What kind of behavior was that?"

Nothing he said would help his case, so he set his jaw and waited for the fallout, keeping Elizabeth sheltered behind him. To his amazement, only Frankenstein and Freddie expressed any kind of irritation. William almost seemed amused.

"You just can't help yourself, can you?" he asked. "You see a pathetic damsel in distress, and you need to rescue her, even if she deserves her punishment. Have you already forgotten the catastrophe she caused this morning? The lives she took? I have it under good authority that she shot Dean last year. And of course she was the one who discovered you legacies in the first place. She's the reason you're in this mess, Sammy, and yet here you are, risking everything to protect her. Why?"

He had to be careful. His response would no doubt influence the rest of the night. Casting a nervous glance around the table, Sam saw Caroline smiling, the Fontaines sipping their wine, Jacob licking his lips, and Cyrus cringing in his seat. Poor kid. If he was raised in this environment, he'd grow up to be as heartless as his brother or as crazy as his cousins. Sam braced himself and met William's gaze. "I guess that's just who I am. Sir."

"Quite right," William agreed. "Well, I think that's enough excitement for one evening. Caroline, Jacob, why don't you both show Lilibet and Sammy to their quarters? They're obviously tired. The rest of us will await your return in the sitting room."

Frankenstein would have objected, but the moment Caroline stood up, he bit his tongue. Jacob noticed and winked at Sam as if they shared some kind of camaraderie against the young European. It was hard to say what worried him more—Frankenstein's resent or Jacob's approval.

"Please excuse us," Caroline said graciously to Arthur and Paige.

"By all means," the man replied. "We understand how children can be. Don't we, my dear?" Paige muttered a quiet response, but Arthur spoke over her. "I hope you have a good night, Sam. And you as well, Elizabeth."

There would only be more trouble if they didn't thank him, and at this point, Sam figured he should probably pick his battles. Gritting his teeth, he managed to say, "You're too kind," which made Arthur smirk. No one thought for a second that he meant his words—he couldn't hide his frustration—but apparently that didn't matter. The Stynes weren't in any hurry to brainwash him, and so far, they were pleased with their progress. If only William hadn't threatened to kidnap and molest some innocent little girl, Sam would have him questioning that progress in a heartbeat.

He didn't want to consider the possibility that the malicious old man would carry out his threat just to teach him not to protect Elizabeth… Damn. The more Sam thought about it, the more he regretted this turn of events.

At Caroline's signal, Sam and Elizabeth began their withdrawal. Jacob met them at the end of the table and escorted them the rest of the way out of the dining room with Caroline bringing up the rear. Once they made it back into the grand foyer, Elizabeth resumed her desperate protesting. "Mama, please! I can't marry him! I would rather die!"

"I know that, sweetheart," Caroline calmly assured her. "I remember. You would have killed yourself all those years ago, were it not for his intervention. Honestly, you should be more grateful for his patience."

"I'll try again," she threatened with tears in her eyes, making Jacob groan. "And this time, I won't fail."

"Lilibet, why do you have to be such a drama queen?" her cousin demanded.

"I must get it from my father," she replied. "You know what he's doing, don't you? Treating us all like puppets in some obnoxious play of his own devising!" She would have continued her rant, but her mother interrupted with a small hand gesture.

"Dormite, Lilibet." As soon as the words left Caroline's mouth, Elizabeth fainted and would have hit the ground were it not for Sam's reflexes. He caught her without even thinking about it, and then froze, unsure how to proceed. Caroline chuckled at him. "Oh, Sam. If you're not more careful, Victor might get jealous. Come along. You might as well help me put her to bed."

"What—?"

Caroline circled around Sam and made for the staircase. Jacob motioned for him to follow, leaving him with no choice but to carry Elizabeth in his arms. She wasn't heavy, but the mere suggestion that he might become a rival of Frankenstein—and Doc Benton—left Sam short of breath. These people were freaks!

They climbed the stairs to the upper landing, where they entered a long hallway lined with vintage candle sconces, credenzas, and mirrors. The wallpaper had a red and black motif, as did the velvet carpet, which gave it a haunted mansion vibe. Sam couldn't make sense of the floorplan. It had more twists and turns than a labyrinth!

Eventually, they came to an exceptional bedroom built for royalty—Sam had seen entire houses that could fit inside. Here, the walls were trimmed in gold. The massive windows were draped with waterfall valances. The tray ceiling was stenciled with grapevines. The tufted bed had a plethora of pillows and a silk canopy. It was the most luxurious room he could imagine, and he was eager to get out.

"Leave her on the floor," Caroline instructed. "If she's going to be a little bitch, there's no reason to trouble ourselves with her comfort." Sam flinched. No wonder Elizabeth was so volatile. Her own mother treated her with nothing but violence, intimidation and contempt. Averting his eyes, he eased the girl onto the Persian rug, mindful of her head. Caroline smiled. "Thank you, Sam. Now why don't we go find your room?"

His room. Sam could count on one hand the number of times he had his own room. Typically, he shared with Dean, and back at Stanford, he bunked with Brady. Most people preferred their own rooms, valuing the privacy and personal space, but right now, Sam just wanted his brother.

Nevertheless, he followed Caroline and Jacob back out into the hallway. They rounded several more corners and entered a separate wing constructed out of stone—as if the architect couldn't decide between building a palace or a castle, and chose to combine the two.

At the end of the hall, they reached a corner room that took Gothic to the extreme. Dimly lit by two lamps with black stands and red shades, it had fancy windows with pointed arches, a tall ceiling with ribbed vaults, a four poster king-sized bed with black drapes, black pillows, and a black coverlet, no heat, no fire in the fireplace, several bookshelves crammed with ancient tomes, and a sitting area with a Chess board set up on the coffee table—the white king was positioned on its side.

"What is this place?" Sam asked bleakly, and Caroline had enough sense to realize he wasn't just referring to the bedroom.

"The Styne safe house? Impressive, isn't it? When Monroe's forefathers began construction, they took elements of their favorite architectural and design styles to produce a château unlike anything imaginable. You Americans can be quite ingenious when you want to be. And because of our current location between realities, they didn't have to worry about spatial difficulties. No limitations! If you ask me, they really outdid themselves. There's not a house in the world that better matches our family's personality."

"What's the matter, Sam?" Jacob asked, observing his disgust. "Don't you like it?"

"No."

His honesty made Jacob snicker. "Good." He pushed Sam through the threshold and into the cold dark room. "Make yourself at home, little brother."

"Try to get some rest, sweetheart," Caroline advised. "I know it's hard when you're in a strange new environment, but you mustn't exhaust yourself. I'll be sure to come check on you in a few hours. So until then, good night."

Sam watched helplessly as they pulled the door shut, trapping him inside. He waited, counting to thirty, for them to withdraw a safe distance, and then took stock of his surroundings. The door to the hall did not have any kind of inside handle—no lock to pick—not that the magical wards would let him out even if he could bust it open.

Two other doors on either side of the room led into a generous closet and a bathroom with the same theme—creepy and vampiric. Or demonic. After all, the Stynes had kidnapped Sam on a demon's behalf, so they might be subjecting him to a demon's taste in decor. Bastards.

Pacing this way and that, searching for something more useful than a blunt object, Sam began to shiver. Even with bandages on his feet, the stone floor felt like ice, and his clothes weren't thick enough to repel the chilliness. He crossed over to the fireplace, but without any kind of lighter—not to mention wood—he couldn't make use of it. The mantel was there to mock him.

His gaze drifted over to the bed. Hell no! But as the temperature seemed to drop, the more tempting its blankets became. The Stynes certainly knew what they were doing. Sam felt like a caged animal and glanced suspiciously at the walls, wondering if they had secret cameras to watch him. Probably. Well, he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of crawling into their bed. He would rather freeze.

Sure enough, within minutes he could see his own breath. Cursing, he picked up a decorative skull from the bookshelf and hurled it at the nearest window. The glass flashed red and sent the skull flying back at him. He managed to sidestep it, but instead of landing harmlessly behind him, the skull apparently ricocheted off thin air and struck the back of his leg. He buckled, landing painfully on his knees. Damn it!

Caroline's words echoed in his memory. _"If you try smashing through a window, or breaking through a door, you'll only damage yourself."_ So that's what she meant.

Curling up on the ground, Sam did his best to endure the cold.

 **SPN**

Some time later, the sound of an opening door caught Sam's attention. Expecting Caroline, he sat up in alarm, only to find Cyrus staring at him from the safety of the hallway. Alone. He looked apprehensive, but equally curious, and for a long pause, the two of them just studied each other silently.

Then Sam inched forward along the floor, not wanting to scare the kid by towering over him. "Hi there… Cyrus, right? I'm Sam." It must have been late at night—or early in the morning. Cyrus was dressed in green flannel pjs. "Did you sneak out of bed?"

He nodded.

"Aren't you worried about getting in trouble?"

He nodded again.

"Then what are you doing here?"

Cyrus hesitated, cocking his head in concern. "My family… They weren't very nice at dinner, were they?"

Very nice? Sam had to bite his tongue to keep from retorting. The Stynes were monsters! But Cyrus was still an innocent, naive little boy whose family meant the world to him. Learning the truth would be a devastating process, and Sam didn't want to overwhelm him. That wouldn't help anyone. "No," he said simply. "No, they weren't."

"But you stood up for Lilibet."

"Yeah. I don't really like bullies. Do you?"

"No." Cyrus shifted uncomfortably, and if Sam had to guess, the kid knew what it felt like to be picked on. "Have you read any of the Lemony Snicket books?"

Sam racked his brain. Lemony Snicket? _A Series of Unfortunate Events_. They were fairly popular children's books, but he was already in high school when the first one came out. He knew enough to say, "That's some pretty dark stuff. You like them?"

"My teacher thinks I'm too young to be reading them."

Sam forced a smile. "That just means you're smarter than your teacher gives you credit for."

Slowly, Cyrus returned the smile, but then shook his head. "I should go."

"What—? Why?" They had only been talking for a minute. Why would Cyrus risk breaking the rules for such a brief conversation?

"I'll try visiting you again, but I don't want to get caught! Be careful, Sam. I think my family's dangerous." That said, he yanked the door shut and abandoned Sam to the cold.

 **SPN**

 **Please review!**


	12. The Dilemma

_**Author's Note:**_ _These chapters keep getting darker. Brace yourselves! (Though I don_ _'t think it's anything we haven't seen on the show, so don't worry about that.)_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Saturday, October 24, 2005)**

111 Monarch Avenue off of West Paces Ferry Road in Buckhead did not exist. There were no records of it, and the neighboring addresses jumped from 101 to 105 to 109 to 113 to 117 to 121. They completely skipped over 111, and when Henriksen, Reidy and Findley began their reconnaissance, they weren't sure what to expect. Of course, Dean warned them they were seeking a house—or mansion, more likely—that occupied space between realities. To infiltrate it, they'd need a portal—because when it came to the supernatural, nothing was ever easy.

For an urban community, most of the properties on Monarch Avenue were well hidden behind dense tree lines. Atlanta was very arboreal, and the rich valued their privacy. When they _could_ see a house from the road, they were invariably struck by its splendor. These weren't just the average plantations you might expect in the south. They were far more varied, ranging from Neoclassical to Spanish to Contemporary. Many of them had asymmetrical facades and complex rooflines with dormers and turrets—they brought to mind castles and palaces. Or 'châteaus,' as Reidy called them.

Pausing in their unmarked sedan across from 109 and 113 Monarch Avenue, the three feds scrutinized the land between the two lots. Nothing but woods. They proceeded down the road and pulled into the driveway of the one empty residence where they had established their base with the city's approval. From there, they made their way back on foot, taking cover in the trees. It would be difficult to set up long-term surveillance around the Stynes' territory without attracting attention—they might have to plant cameras. But first, Henriksen wanted a closer look.

It was a crisp, clear and quiet morning. Not much traffic—most people were sleeping in. Branching out, Findley, Henriksen and Reidy took advantage of the stillness to hunt for anything unusual—anything that might indicate supernatural activity. Dead plants. A ring of mushrooms. They weren't picky. As long as it suggested they were on the right track, and that Dean wasn't trying to mislead them.

Unfortunately, they weren't having much luck. Everything looked normal. Normal trees. Normal birds. Normal landscaping. 109 and 113 Monarch Avenue lacked a noticeable boundary, and from what Findley could tell, nothing had disturbed this tranquil frontier in a very long time.

But then they heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Instinctively, they ducked behind the largest trees available, concealing themselves from potential adversaries. And within seconds, they spied a BMW cruising up the road. It made a sharp turn and would have slammed straight into a cluster of elms if it wasn't for the sudden emergence of a brilliant, breathtaking, silver beacon. It fractured the air, exposing a tunnel through which the car swiftly vanished. Findley blinked, and the beacon extinguished itself as quickly as it appeared.

"Did anyone else just see that?" Reidy asked as they slowly and tentatively regrouped.

"If by 'that,' you're referring to a creepy-ass interdimensional portal," Henriksen replied, "then yeah, I definitely saw it. We're in over our heads, aren't we?"

"No doubt about that," Findley muttered. "But what the hell? Sam needs our help, and I for one can't stop now."

 **SPN**

From his place at the round table in their cozy little breakfast room, Jacob sipped his coffee and watched Sam toss in his sleep. Thanks to Aunt Caroline's magic, he was out cold—which gave the woman an opportunity to clean his hair, treat his bruises, and change his clothes. Now, dressed in a fresh pair of trousers and a new cashmere sweater, he lay at the foot of a bay window, having fallen off the bench, where he labored pathetically against his nightmares—if only Jacob could get inside his head and discover what exactly scared him so.

No matter. Since Freddie and Earl had returned from their errand run, the day was shaping up to be memorable—a real treat—and Jacob, usually a patient man, could hardly wait to get started. It was already past 10:00 in the morning. Sam had done rather well withstanding their manipulations the night before, which meant he must be miserable. Hungry. Exhausted. Freezing. Jacob savored the thought.

Leaning back in his chair, he regarded his captive affectionately while debating on the subject of his hair. Monroe always said that nothing made as much of an impression as hair length. Styne men—the American Stynes, anyway—kept their hair short and tidy. Victor preferred his shoulder-length, which Jacob found irritating. Sam's hair was much less offensive, but still on the shaggy side. It made him look boyish and vulnerable, which Jacob appreciated, but if he was to become a proper Styne, he required a major trim. And wouldn't it be fun to hogtie him and shear his hair by force?

As Jacob fantasized over it, Sam suddenly jerked awake. Gasping, he sat up and frantically surveyed his new surroundings—more than likely, he didn't remember falling asleep and had every reason to be flustered. The moment he saw Jacob watching him, he shrank back against the bay window's bench and braced himself for more punishment. Did he have any idea how precious that made him look?

"Morning, sunshine," Jacob said pleasantly. "Sleep well?" When Sam chose not to answer, he feigned frustration. "Honestly, little brother, we haven't been gagging you as a courtesy, but if you're not going to talk, then what's the point?"

Sam grimaced. "Screw you!"

"Now that's better." Smirking, Jacob beckoned him to the breakfast table where a plate of eggs, bacon, grits and some homemade muffins waited with a glass of orange juice. Sam didn't move, so Jacob said, "If you don't come eat, I'll have to make you eat. What'll it be?" He secretly hoped the boy would refuse; he fancied the idea of feeding him.

Unfortunately, Sam wasn't as keen to have food stuffed down his throat. He reluctantly got up and took the seat across from Jacob where he analyzed the meal distrustfully. If he thought it might be laced with something, he was correct. The Stynes had a gift for concocting sedatives and anesthetics—which came in handy with their bioengineering—and while these particular ingredients weren't nearly strong enough to debilitate the boy, they would hopefully help him relax. He needed his wits about him, but constant tension wasn't healthy.

Eventually, Sam fingered a fork and started with the eggs. "Where is everyone?" he asked between bites.

Jacob shrugged. "I suppose they're upstairs planning the event of the season. It's gonna be a huge wedding." He paused thoughtfully. "You know, Sammy, you could use a haircut."

To his disappointment, the boy scoffed. "Great. I'll look like Dean."

Jacob's shoulders sagged. Damn. If Sam was going to associate it with his brother, then it wasn't worth the effort. "Good point. In that case, never mind." On the bright side, Sam didn't realize how crestfallen Jacob was, and didn't bother gloating. Instead, he finished his eggs sullenly and pushed away the plate.

"If I eat anything else, I really will throw up," he said.

"Drink your orange juice."

Sam hesitated, as if it were poison, but the moment Jacob stood over him, he grabbed the glass and held it to his lips, his face contorting in disgust.

Jacob nodded his approval. "Good. We've got something special planned for today, and you're gonna need all your strength." Sam nearly dropped the glass. He set it back on the table and looked up at Jacob nervously.

"What are you talking about?"

Jacob smiled. "Straight to it, then." A thrill of excitement rushed through his body, and he motioned for Sam to get up. When the boy didn't move fast enough, he snatched his arm and yanked him out of his chair. "You see, it's been over a year since I've had the pleasure of harvesting anyone."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sam recoiled. He attempted to attack, but Jacob was ready for him and easily shoved him face-first against a wall. "You need to calm down!" He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, wrenched Sam's arms behind his back, and fastened his wrists together. There was something about restraining the hunter that truly appealed to him—like calf roping at a rodeo. Fun. "This is for your own good, boy. There are certain aspects of your new life that will require desensitization, and harvesting is one of them. The more you fight, the more exposure you'll need."

"NO!" Sam tried twisting free, but after a quick power struggle, Jacob managed to get a nice, firm grasp, and hauled him out of the room. They stormed into the foyer, Sam shouting the whole way. From the corner of his eye, Jacob observed Cyrus standing in the entrance to the parlor, a look of stark terror on his face. He would need to be desensitized as well, but he was still so young. He could afford to wait.

They climbed the same stairs from last night, but with much more difficulty. Sam wasn't cooperating, and by the time they reached the upper landing, Jacob was starting to sweat. He'd have to increase the dosage at Sam's next meal—or at least make sure he ate more than a few bites. The sedative wasn't having any effect. "Don't worry, little brother. The first one's always the hardest, but it'll get easier. I promise."

"I'm going to kill you!"

They took a different route through the wide, convoluted corridors—it was tricky not getting lost—and eventually stumbled into the library. Jacob wasn't much of a reader, and he marveled at the number of shelves lining the walls. Honestly, who in their family had time for so many books? Still, it served its purpose as a front for their secret laboratory. Why they needed a _secret_ laboratory in the safety of their stronghold, Jacob couldn't say.

A spiral staircase in the far corner led up to the balcony where a certain bookcase was built to pivot in a circle. Keeping a tight hold on Sam, Jacob found the first edition of _Frankenstein_ and gently tugged it an inch off the shelf, triggering the switch. Sam groaned when the bookcase turned. "You've got to be kidding!"

They slipped through the hidden passageway and into a giant, futuristic chamber filled with state of the art medical equipment. Everything from scanners to probes to sophisticated surgical devices. There were multiple operating tables, as well as examination chairs, each under harsh spotlights, surrounded by large computer consoles.

Off to the side was a row of cylindrical pods containing their specimen supply—mostly men and women collected from local nightclubs. Strong. Healthy. Serviceable. They were desperately pounding on the clear walls of their respective prisons, crying and pleading for help, but since the pods were more durable than bulletproof glass, not to mention soundproof, they were given little attention. Overall, the lab was everything Monroe had ever dreamt of—not something they could get away with in the real world, but easily attainable between dimensions. Jacob was honored to make use of it.

Sam, on the other hand, panicked. "You can't do this!" He renewed his efforts to escape, forcing Jacob to knee him in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath, and Jacob easily ushered him to the nearest examination chair. Much like a dental chair, it was cushioned and adjustable. Dumping Sam on top of it, Jacob reached for a nylon strap to buckle around his waist. He cinched it tight.

"Stop!" Sam shouted, kicking wildly. Jacob backslapped his cheek, stunning him long enough to secure a second strap around his ankles. There. With his wrists cuffed behind him, Sam wasn't going anywhere, and Jacob sighed in satisfaction. They looked at each other, and Sam shook his head. "Please. I'm begging you. Don't do this."

Attracted by the commotion, William and Victor made their way out of the adjacent storage closet, rolling a large cart between them. They sneered as Jacob leaned in over his captive. "Listen up, Sammy, cause this is important. Not only are we doing this, but you're gonna help. You're gonna tell me which one of these lab rats I'm gonna harvest."

All the color drained out of Sam's face. "No!"

"Yes," Jacob insisted, lightly stroking Sam's chin. "And here's why. If you make the selection, we will administer anesthesia so the specimen doesn't feel a thing. He—or she—will die peacefully in a very sound sleep, no trouble at all. But if you don't make the selection, then I will, and I'll pick one of the girls, and she'll be awake for the whole procedure, which will be long and extremely painful. Understand?"

It was a moral dilemma that left Sam speechless. His gaze drifted over to the containment pods—five men, four women, anywhere between eighteen and thirty-five. There was nothing special about them—they were abducted simply for being available at the right opportunity. But to Sam, their lives were valuable, even more than his own, and worth protecting. Jacob didn't understand that line of logic, and hoped to break Sam of it, but in the meantime, he basked in the boy's despair.

"Think about it," he said, straightening up. "You still have a few minutes to decide while we finish our preparations, but keep in mind, you can't stop us. One of those prisoners will die this morning, and that's a fact. The only choice you have is whether or not they suffer in the process."

Pleased with himself, Jacob turned and sauntered over to William and Victor, who were setting up a work station at the operating table. Ever since the notorious Frankenstein produced his first creature, bioengineering had been a family specialty. But while Victor continued to experiment with corpses, Monroe had applied his research for his own improvement. Why bother customizing monsters when you could customize yourself?

These days, every Styne had some form of surgical enhancement. Extra muscles. Supplemental organs. Not only were they the magical elite; they were also the physical elite. Practically gods. However, much like tattoos, enhancements could become addictive. The more they made, the more they craved. Harvesting 'spare parts' became normal routine, and Jacob was eager to pick up a scalpel. It had been far too long.

"You've turned cruelty into an art form, Jacob," William said, helping him don a white lab coat. "It's rather inspiring."

Jacob shrugged. "I spent months in isolation pondering how to avenge our family, and believe me when I say we're just getting started."

William chuckled, but his next reply was interrupted by unexpected movement. Somehow, Sam's wrists were free, and he was unbuckling his restraints with remarkable efficiency. How the hell? Those were the same handcuffs that William magically reinforced. The locks were unyielding; they couldn't be picked! How did Sam escape?

Oh. As the boy defiantly approached them, Jacob noticed the cuffs dangling from his right wrist. The left shackle remained intact, which could only mean one thing. If Sam didn't break it, he must have broken something else. Namely his thumb. And now he was challenging them with a mixture of dread, anger, and determination. Jacob could hardly believe his fortitude. After exchanging looks with William and Victor—who were equally impressed—he smiled sadistically. "You can't win, little brother."

"I'm not your brother!" Sam spat.

"YES, YOU ARE!" Jacob thought shouting would make Sam flinch, and it worked. After all, he was running on poor sleep, a weak stomach, and now a broken thumb, which had to be excruciating. Jacob took advantage of his lapse and charged at him, but Sam recovered quickly and jumped out of the way. Excellent. Jacob loved fighting, and since William and Victor were both content to watch, it seemed they had time to enjoy themselves.

He chased after Sam, throwing punches as he went, but the boy deftly evaded him while dancing around a computer console. He noticed a stool, picked it up, and hurled it at Jacob, who managed to catch it with minimal difficulty. "Is that the best you can do?" he asked, tossing it to the side.

Instead of answering, Sam followed through with a furious right hook. It wasn't as strong as Dean's, but it still knocked Jacob back a step. Three successive blows dropped him to the pristine floor, where he was at the perfect level to jab Sam's kneecap. With an agonized cry, he hit the ground hard while Jacob stood up again. "You know, this really isn't the place for hand-to-hand training. A lot of sophisticated machinery could be damaged, and you'll be the one punished for it."

He bore down on Sam, who used his legs to catapult him over his head. Jacob found himself back on the floor, and he couldn't help but laugh. Sam deserved more credit; he was tougher than he looked. When it came to raw talent, he was almost a match for his brother, and if this was a fair fight, Jacob would be concerned. But it wasn't. Not even close. Sam was an ordinary human; Jacob was enhanced. Eventually, Sam would run out of stamina. Jacob, on the other hand, could do this all day.

Squaring off again, they climbed to their feet. Sam kept glancing at William and Victor, anticipating an attack, but they just smiled at him. Jacob had control of the situation, so they had no reason to intervene. After a beat, Jacob rushed forward. Sam braced himself, and they began a round of fierce brawling that had everyone—especially the captive specimens—hanging onto every move.

"I can't believe John let you go to Stanford," Jacob taunted as they clashed. "You have so much potential, Sammy! If you didn't waste those years at school, when you could have been honing your skills, this would be a different fight!" He caught Sam's arm in a lock that had the boy gasping, but a moment later, he slipped free and aimed a punch for Jacob's throat. He blocked it and rammed his knee into Sam's groin. Needless to say, that was all his body could take, and he collapsed, landing in Jacob's arms.

The gratification was indescribable. "Nice try, little brother. A for effort." He relished Sam's whimpering as he manhandled him back to the examination chair. He rebuckled the nylon straps around his waist and ankles, cinching them even tighter then before, and removed the shackle from his wrist. So much for handcuffs.

Fortunately, these particular chairs came with armrests. Jacob pushed Sam's sleeve up and searched for contraband—just in case he somehow acquired a sharp object during the fight. Best to keep his escape attempts down to a minimum. Not finding anything, Jacob maneuvered Sam's arm to the armrest and secured it with yet another nylon strap. Sam winced as it pinched his skin.

After repeating the process with his other arm, Jacob mounted the chair and sat on top of the boy—just to emphasize his defeat. Sam squirmed beneath him, panting for breath as he met fresh waves of fear. "Jacob, please!" He was smart enough to predict his punishment.

"Sorry, kiddo," Jacob said, wiping a tear from Sam's eye. "But you've got to learn to cooperate." From the pocket of his lab coat, he produced a roll of medical tape and broke off two long strips. With the first, he made a plug and stuffed Sam's mouth. Then, he wrapped the second around Sam's head to keep him from spitting it out. "It's better this way. I mean, you need to hear them screaming, Sammy. It's an important part of the experience—and I'm sure it'll help desensitize you."

"Mmmppphhh!" Sam struggled uselessly as Jacob climbed off him.

"Victor, would you mind returning the anesthesia? We won't be needing it after all."

"My pleasure."

Jacob rubbed his palms together and glanced at the row of containment pods. The nine prisoners all shared Sam's terror, and if they weren't trying to break through the glass-like walls, they were sobbing hysterically. The youngest was an eighteen-year-old redhead in a short skirt with bright lipstick. She was thin, pretty, and easily the most vulnerable. Sam would hate to watch her die.

But wasn't that the point?

 **SPN**

 _ **Don't leave here without reviewing! Don't be that person! :-p**_


	13. Anguish

_**Author's Note:**_ _I love how interested everyone seems to be in Cyrus. Thank you all so much for your support! It means the world to me. :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Saturday, October 24, 2005)**

Cyrus had been waiting for months to get his copy of _The Penultimate Peril_ , the twelfth novel in _A Series of Unfortunate Events_ by Lemony Snicket, which had only been published a week ago. He loved the books and had been reading them faithfully ever since the Winchesters 'brought his family to ruin,' as Mr. Fontaine often said. It was a comfort to spend his free time in the company of other orphans—even fictional orphans—and Cyrus could relate to the Baudelaire children in ways that he couldn't to his schoolmates.

Yes, at seven years old, he was a bit young for the material, but he would be eight in December, and none of the books his teacher recommended measured up. After all, Violet, Klaus and Sunny were trapped in a hostile world; they could trust no one but each other; the adults in their lives were bad and frightening. But despite their circumstances, they persevered with their courage and cleverness. They were strong and heroic. Exactly what Cyrus hoped to be.

Of course, the more Cyrus read, the more he noticed certain things about his own guardians, his cousins, his aunt and uncle, as well as his brother, that struck him as suspicious. Mostly concerning Sam and Elizabeth. According to Jacob, Sam was taken from an abusive—and murderous—father who wanted to rob him of his future. The Stynes were going to 'teach him how a proper family treats each other.' It was very kind of them…

But after the wedding announcement last night, Elizabeth accused Victor of burning someone alive. And Victor proceeded to attack her in a very real, very disturbing display of domestic violence. Was _that_ how proper families treated each other? No. Cyrus knew without a shadow of a doubt that proper families behaved like Violet, Klaus and Sunny. Not like the villainous Count Olaf.

So where did that leave him? Unlike the Baudelaires, Cyrus did not have any siblings on his side; he was completely alone. How could he challenge his family when grown-ups like Sam and Elizabeth could not? He was outnumbered and outmatched. Maybe— _maybe_ —he could outsmart them, but was it worth the risk? Cyrus didn't know Sam, and he barely remembered Elizabeth. Why should he help them?

Because of Uncle William's response when Sam stood up for Elizabeth. That was all Cyrus needed to hear.

" _You just can't help yourself, can you? You see a pathetic damsel in distress, and you need to rescue her, even if she deserves her punishment. Have you already forgotten the catastrophe she caused this morning? The lives she took? I have it under good authority that she shot Dean last year. And of course she was the one who discovered you legacies in the first place. She's the reason you're in this mess, Sammy, and yet here you are, risking everything to protect her. Why?"_

Because Sam was the good guy. And he was friendly. And he didn't like bullies. Cyrus had read plenty of books about people like Sam, but Sam was the first person he had ever met who actually put others ahead of himself. And if Cyrus could help him, he had to try.

"What's gotten into you, Cy?"

The question snapped him from his thoughts. He was presently curled up on a large recliner in the parlor, his book in his lap. Aunt Caroline—his inquisitor—sat on the sofa with Mrs. Fontaine at her side; they were flipping through a wedding magazine. Across from them, Elizabeth watched with a vacant expression, and over by the windows, Mr. Fontaine stood chatting with Earl and Freddie. Thanks to Aunt Caroline, they all turned to stare at Cyrus.

Hesitating, he said, "I don't understand—?"

"You haven't turned a page in that book you're reading for over ten minutes," she explained. "Is something on your mind?" She didn't sound angry, but Cyrus knew better than to try her patience.

Thinking quickly, he found himself asking, "Would it be all right if I played with Sam for awhile?" Caroline raised her eyebrows, not expecting such a request. Cyrus shrugged. "I mean, if we're going to be brothers, shouldn't we get to know each other?" He dropped his gaze, lacking confidence in his deflection technique.

After a moment, Caroline replied, "Is that why you went to visit Sam last night? To get acquainted?"

Cyrus' blood ran cold, and he shrank back in alarm, which naturally made his aunt chuckle.

"Not to worry, Cy," she said. "We're not upset with you. Not this time, anyway. After all, boys will be boys. It's perfectly normal for a lad your age to test the boundaries. But let this be a warning. Next time, you have to be stealthier. If you're going to break the rules by sneaking out of bed, you can't let yourself get caught. Otherwise, like Lilibet, you will have to face the consequences. Do you understand?"

Cyrus took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes ma'am." He couldn't help but glance at Mrs. Fontaine—she would never let him get away with such behavior—but she had her eyes fixed on the wedding magazine and chose not to comment on the matter. After all, she wasn't his mother, and it wasn't her place to question her hostess.

"I do think it's a good idea for you to befriend Sam," Caroline eventually decided. "He's so excitable; he could use a calming presence. But not right now, Cy. He's having a rough day, and I doubt he'll be in the mood for company. Perhaps tomorrow."

"Yes ma'am." Cyrus thought back to this morning when he happened to glimpse Jacob dragging Sam through the foyer. It looked like Sam was having a temper tantrum, but somehow, Cyrus had a feeling it was justified. And given the circumstances, he didn't want to consider what it meant for Sam to be having a 'rough day.'

Suddenly, they were joined by Uncle William, who crossed over to kiss Caroline on the cheek. He proceeded to greet Mr. Fontaine before asking about the wedding plans.

"Well," Caroline said brightly. "We've put together a guest list for your approval. We'll have to dispatch the invitations tomorrow at the latest—it's already short notice. Now we're brainstorming ideas for the gown and the decorations, but enough about that. How was the harvest?"

Harvest? Cyrus wrinkled his brow. They were in Atlanta's city limits. What could they possibly be harvesting?

William winked maliciously. "It was everything we hoped—and more. Sammy broke his thumb." The delight in his voice made Cyrus' stomach turn, and he winced on Sam's behalf.

Caroline also made a face, but it was exaggerated and patronizing. "Poor dear. However did that happen?"

"He wanted to get out of his handcuffs," William said simply. Freddie held back a disappointed groan—he seemed to regret missing the action.

"And did you fix it?" Caroline asked.

"I did. I thought it best to prevent further damage—but not before cementing his perception of the pain. His hand has been repaired, but he will feel the agony of a broken bone for at least a week, until the spell wears off. Have you noticed how fragile people are? I've had so many enhancements, I keep forgetting."

Cyrus made it a point to tune out the rest of the conversation. How could anyone be so mean? And why did it have to be his family?

 **SPN**

Sam spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled out on his bed, where Jacob had left him. He couldn't bring himself to move, and he couldn't block out the memory of that poor girl's murder. It had him in tears—tears of anguish, hatred, and overwhelming shame. He had the chance to stop it, to kill the Stynes and rescue their victims, but he failed miserably. And now he had at least eight more deaths to anticipate. Jacob made it abundantly clear that he wasn't going to miss a single harvest.

He turned his thoughts to John and Dean. What would they do if they were in his place? Obviously keep fighting. They would mask their feelings under the guises of contempt and indifference, so the bad guys wouldn't see how appalled they were, and they would fight until their dying breaths. But they were stronger than Sam. They always had been; they always would be. And if they were here, they wouldn't let the shell shock distract them from the eight lives they had to save. They were hunters, and if they didn't do something about the Stynes, then who would?

How could Sam face them? He was worn out and sick at heart. If he didn't think John and Dean were coming for him, he wouldn't have been able to cope, but he still feared his despair would somehow let them down, and he couldn't stand the thought. What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to save anyone when he couldn't even save himself?

Gradually, the light outside his windows dimmed. Day turned to evening, and evening turned to night. Sam didn't move. Much to his alarm, he wasn't just relieved by his lengthy respite; he was grateful for it. The last thing he needed was mixed feelings about his treatment. Instead, he tried to focus on his thumb.

Over the course of his life, he had suffered more than one broken bone, so the pain was nothing new. He could tell just by looking at it that William had, in fact, restored it to health. The lingering sensation was nothing but a magical illusion meant to prolong his misery, but on the bright side, it gave him an anchor. He tried convincing himself that if he held onto the pain, it would fuel his hatred, and if he held onto his hatred, he could ride out the storm. It was the best he could do. He was so exhausted.

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Sunday, October 25, 2005)**

The next morning, despite everything, Sam felt better. Not that he was any less upset; the thought of the dead girl still made him nauseous. But at least he was able to climb off the bed, wash his face, and get a hold of himself. When Caroline came to fetch him for breakfast, with a somber Elizabeth in her wake, Sam managed to glare at them bitterly.

"Good morning, sweetheart!" Caroline said, unperturbed.

"Go to hell!" He tried sounding belligerent, but his voice didn't cooperate. Instead, it trembled pathetically, which of course brought a sparkle to Caroline's eyes.

"Now Sam," she playfully reproached. "Is that anyway to address your mother?"

"You're not my mother."

"I see. Well, we were planning to give you some leisure time today, but it sounds like you would prefer a repeat of yesterday. Shall we prepare for another harvest, then?"

"No!" The word was out of Sam's mouth before he could stop it, and a huge weight descended on his shoulders. What made him think he could fight this? Averting his eyes, he said, "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry…?" she prompted.

"I'm sorry, ma'am."

"No, no, no," she replied, much to his dismay. "Not this time, kiddo. I want you to address me properly."

He could feel the bile in his throat, making it difficult to speak. Unfortunately, Caroline waited, crossing her arms. She wasn't going to let it drop, and Sam couldn't make his recalcitrance the reason for another death. "I'm sorry… mother."

"Let's not be so formal with each other. Go ahead and call me 'mom.'"

Sam closed his eyes. "Mom."

"Now was that so hard?"

Sam had to remind himself of her magic to keep from launching at her in a fit of rage. She was an evil bitch, and he wanted to kill her, but she would not have entered his room without a guard unless she was fully capable of protecting herself. Fighting would get him nowhere—at least nowhere good.

"Are you hungry, Sam? There's breakfast downstairs. We'd best hurry before it gets cold."

 **SPN**

Sam wasn't sure what they mixed into his food, but it eased the tension out of his neck and shoulders. It settled his stomach, and even sharpened his awareness—like some kind of restorative. His hand still hurt, but other than that, he felt unnervingly refreshed, but it was hard to appreciate the Stynes' consideration when he suspected they were just maintaining him for long-term captivity. They didn't care about his comfort, just his health.

By the time Caroline led Sam and Elizabeth into the parlor, his muscles were so limp that not even the sight of Jacob, William and Frankenstein could strain him. He still stopped short, emotionally agitated, but physically relaxed. It worried him that he wouldn't be able to fight if he couldn't even brace himself.

The three men were not alone in the luxurious room. Freddie, Earl and Arthur Fontaine were also present, debating between four large floral arrangements for the wedding. Did they prefer the roses? Or the succulents? The hydrangeas? Or the wild flowers? It was apparently a major decision, but after yesterday's torment, Sam couldn't tear his gaze away from the murderers. He wanted to run and hide, but since he was already in the parlor, he knew the protective warding would not allow him to leave. He was trapped.

"They're all so beautiful!" Caroline exclaimed, quick to join the conversation. "Just imagine what we can do with a few thousand roses. But let's not forget, red makes more of a statement than white." With everyone's attention fixed on the flowers, Elizabeth edged around the side of the room toward a window seat away from the group. Sam unconsciously followed her, all the while remembering how Jess told him that roses were lame.

"This can't be happening," Elizabeth whispered.

Sam wasn't entirely sure whether she was speaking to him or muttering to herself, but he found himself whispering back. "There has to be something we can do. They have to have some kind of weakness, right?"

"Oh, they have plenty," Elizabeth assured him. "They're not invincible, you know. One shot to the head should kill them. So should decapitation, or setting them on fire—like they did to Thomas…" She shuddered. "If you're desperate enough, my father and Victor both wear protective amulets that absorb the negative reactions to their magic. Destroy the amulet, and all hell breaks loose. But there's no guarantee you would survive, so that should be a last resort."

Sam glanced from her over to William and Frankenstein. Of course he had noticed the matching pendants they wore on long, intricate chains, but he thought they were just necklaces. Tacky jewelry. He should have known better. "Yeah, as tempting as that sounds, they've got a bunch of people trapped upstairs. I can't trigger the self-destruct till they're out of harm's way."

Elizabeth scoffed. "I hate to break this to you, Sam, but those people are already dead." Her tone made his skin crawl. "Think about it. You've already seen some of Victor's more grotesque abominations. Well, he's just as capable of making them attractive. That girl Jacob harvested yesterday was a reanimated corpse. Nothing more. The Stynes operate on secrecy. Do you really think they're going to kidnap nine people all at once? Especially from the same neck of the woods? Don't be so gullible."

"Don't listen to her, Sammy," Jacob interrupted, apparently eavesdropping. It wouldn't be a surprise if he had enhanced hearing in addition to everything else. "She might be a real fortune-teller, but when she gets bored with the truth, she either twists it, or circumvents it. She's a treacherous snake, little brother, and I promise she sees you as a pawn."

Sam stared at the floor while Elizabeth fumed. "That's not true. I see him as the only person in this godforsaken place who has shown me the slightest courtesy, and I owe him!"

"That's right," Jacob agreed. "But when have you ever repaid your debts? Please, Lilibet. I know you well enough to recognize that look on your face. You're a caged dragon. You want the world to perish for what happened to your boyfriend, but you can't do it yourself. Not with Aunt Caroline blocking your powers. I mean, come on! You're not built to fight. You're as delicate as a child. There's no way in hell you have what it takes to steal an amulet from your father, much less your fiancé. You need Sammy to do it for you, and you'll say anything to manipulate him. So if he can't stomach the thought of killing those wretches in the lab, then why not convince him they're already dead? Am I right?"

"Jacob…" The pain and betrayal in Elizabeth's voice sounded genuine. Or was it an act?

"I'm sorry, Lilibet," he replied gently. "But you're out of control, and I can't let you rain destruction down on this family. I won't." After a pause, he said, "Sam, look at me." As much as he wanted to, Sam couldn't ignore him. Their gazes met. "Do I need to prove she's lying? Do you need a more intimate look at our lab rats to determine their condition? We have time right now."

Sam shook his head, staring back at the floor. He had known from the start that he couldn't trust Elizabeth. It was reckless and stupid to conspire with her. What was he thinking?

"Good," Jacob said, satisfied. "Now can we please make a decision about those damn flowers? Sam, which ones do you like?"

"The roses," he said automatically, just to get it over with. Unfortunately, Jacob saw right through him.

"Doesn't sound like you put any thought into that."

Caroline sighed. "All right, enough!" Everyone cringed at her exasperation; it was never wise to upset the lady of the house. "I think we could all use a break. Come on. Let's take a walk outside. The fresh air will do us some good."

 **SPN**

Sam didn't know what to expect as the other men formed a perimeter around him while Caroline linked arms with Elizabeth. They were still between realities. What could possibly be waiting beyond the magnificent back door? He pictured a shadowy void, or a heavy fog. Something sinister. Certainly not a gorgeous patio overlooking a green lawn with plenty of flowerbeds… which was what he found.

Cyrus and Paige Fontaine were already outside, some distance away, near a domed gazebo; they were taking turns snapping photos with a DSLR camera. Sam blinked at the sight of the familiar structure. Why did he recognize it? Why did he suddenly feel such déjà vu? A chill ran down his spine.

When Paige saw the large company venturing into the garden, she smiled and waved at them. Cyrus, however, seemed uncomfortable. He didn't make a sound as they flocked together. "Caroline!" Paige said enthusiastically. "I could stay in this paradise forever!"

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Caroline agreed. "Perhaps we should consider an outdoor wedding." They began discussing the possibility while the men rolled their eyes.

"This is precisely why it takes most people longer than a week to plan a wedding," Arthur casually observed.

William nodded. "Well, I think you'll find that we are not most people."

"I'll say! And it has been a privilege working for you!"

As they wandered from flowerbed to flowerbed, basking in the radiant sun, Sam happened to glimpse a cluster of crepe myrtles. His heart was pounding, though he couldn't put his finger on the source of his dread. And to make matters worse, he noticed Jacob watching him with a perplexed frown.

"Sammy? Something wrong?"

The muscle relaxers from his breakfast were wearing off, and Sam felt his body tensing up again. He thought he might be sick. There! His gaze landed on a tall hedge. It looked different in the daylight, but he couldn't mistake it. "Oh my god…" He brushed past Jacob, who allowed the abrupt deviation, and scrambled toward the green barrier, which he knew enclosed a courtyard.

It took him a minute to find the entrance, but when he did, he came across the marble statue of a two-headed bird with outstretched wings. Perched on a five-foot pedestal, it was an oversized, monstrous vulture, and Sam knew exactly where he had seen it before. This was the backdrop of his recurring nightmares. This was where he watched Elizabeth kill Jessica time and time again.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please review!**_


	14. Revelation

**SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Sunday, October 25, 2005)**

Sam wasn't sure how long he stared at the monstrous statue. It could only have been a few seconds, but it felt like hours. Questions raced through his mind, demanding his attention. Where did the statue come from? How could it be here? What did it mean? Could he be having a nightmare right now? Or was he awake? How could a figment of his imagination find its way into the Stynes' backyard? Unless…

Unless the sadistic bastards were somehow able to access his dreams, and set this up to taunt him.

"Now what do we have here?" Arthur Fontaine asked as the company pursued Sam into the garden courtyard. He and his wife regarded the two-headed bird in fascination. William, Caroline and Elizabeth considered it in admiration, while Earl and Freddie looked on in pride. Frankenstein rolled his eyes and Cyrus cringed. Only Jacob kept his gaze fixed on Sam with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"That is Vita," Frankenstein growled. "She was the very first specimen in our family's ancient research, all those centuries ago, which is why she became the inspiration for the Frankenstein crest." The tattoo on Sam's left wrist tingled ominously, which inflamed his aching thumb. Frankenstein continued, "I would like to point out this sculpture belongs to me. I requisitioned it back in the nineteenth century. Jacob, your grandfather smuggled it to the States against my wishes, and if you'd be so kind as to return it, I'd be much obliged."

Sam's heart skipped a beat. Maybe it wasn't a figment of his imagination. But how could he be dreaming about it? He had never seen it before! "Is that true?" he asked Jacob apprehensively, unable to keep from shaking. His instincts warned him to shut his mouth, but he was too overwhelmed.

Jacob cocked his head. "To be honest, I forgot all about this statue. But you, Sammy… it's like you knew. You didn't find this courtyard on accident; you aimed for it. So talk to me, little brother. What's going on?"

Whoever chiseled the bird had outdone himself—it seemed so real, each feather a masterpiece. But it was also predatory and grotesque. When Sam pictured Jessica's body at the foot of the pedestal, like a sacrifice, he wanted to scream.

His horror must have shown on his face, and for once the Stynes weren't to blame—not intentionally. "Sam!" Jacob grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him away from the statue, and steadied him. "You recognize it, don't you? There's no way. How's that even possible?"

Their gazes met, and Jacob's eyes contained a protective vigilance that shocked Sam by reminding him of Dean. Granted, it was too possessive, but still fraternal, and for the first time, Sam wondered if the whole 'family' thing wasn't just a sick game. What if Jacob was starting to convince himself it was real? Just when he thought things couldn't get worse…

A laugh escaped Elizabeth's lips, startling everyone. As upset as she was, how could she be laughing? But no, her expression was not amused; it was derisive. "He's starting to mature." She smiled sympathetically at Sam. "I knew it would happen sooner or later."

"What are you talking about?" Jacob asked suspiciously.

Her smile turned sickly sweet. "I've read his palm, remember? I know him better than he knows himself, and if he recognizes a statue he can't possibly have seen before, there's one explanation." She paused, savoring their suspense, and Sam would have shied away if not for Jacob's grasp. "But why should I tell any of you? Y'all disgust me!"

Caroline did not appreciate her daughter hoarding information. "Pay attention, Cyrus," she told her nephew venomously. "You should know what happens when children forget their place." And with that, she made a simple hand gesture before clenching her fist. Elizabeth grimaced, pressing her fingers against her temple. Then she doubled over, landing on her knees while gasping in pain.

Caught off guard, Cyrus dropped his camera. It would have smashed against the ground, but Frankenstein reached out for it, and it magically soared over to him. Making a few adjustments with the lens, he began snapping photos of his fiancée.

Meanwhile, Caroline ambled behind Elizabeth. "Ten lashes, I think." She raised up her arm and snapped it down. Something invisible struck Elizabeth directly in the back, making her flinch, making her squeal. Caroline sighed, her expression softening. "I don't care what anyone says. There will always be a place for corporal punishment." She repeated the motion, smiling at Elizabeth's reaction. It was like a whip, and this time, it made a tear in her dress, drawing blood.

After everything he had been through, and with the two-headed bird heavy on his mind, Sam was in no condition to intervene. He wasn't even sure he wanted to. But Cyrus… Something about the boy's demeanor prompted Sam to shove away from Jacob. "Leave her alone!" Unfortunately, Jacob held on and yanked Sam back. He slipped behind him and caught him in a crushing bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides. "No!" Sam squirmed forlornly while Jacob cooed in his ear.

"We would never flog you, little brother…"

Caroline struck Elizabeth a third time. More blood. More cries.

"But when we're ready to fetch Dean, you'll be watching a lot of this. Before we sacrifice him."

"Stop!" Sam winced as Caroline continued thrashing her daughter. Four. Five. Six.

Suddenly, Frankenstein stepped away from the women and maliciously turned the camera toward Sam and Jacob. "Smile, boys." He took a quick picture. Then, he adjusted the lens, observed the sun's position, and moved to a better spot—one that was uncomfortably close. Sam languished in Jacob's arms as Frankenstein gleefully photographed them, each snap emphasizing his helplessness.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

By now, Elizabeth was screaming. The back of her dress was in tatters, and blood spilled onto the ground. Cyrus and Paige were both repulsed, but neither moved an inch to help. After all, what could they do?

Ten.

A light sweat glistened on Caroline's brow as she wiped her hands. "There. Now let's try this again. Elizabeth, we don't keep secrets from our family. What have you been hiding?"

Ever so slowly, Elizabeth raised her head. From her limited perspective, no one but Sam showed any concern for her predicament. She was literally holding her dress up, trying to cover herself, and they just stared at her as if she deserved it. Broken and humiliated, she crumbled. "Okay. Since you asked so nicely."

She shuddered, and Sam held his breath. He didn't want to know. Whatever she was about to say, it couldn't be good, and he didn't want to know!

"As most of you may recall, Sam was singled out from infancy by the demon, Azazel," she began glumly. "Hell's finest general, according to Uncle Monroe. But you have to understand, Sam wasn't chosen on a whim. He's special. Gifted. He's going to usher in a new era, one of darkness, disease and death."

"No!" Sam shook his head, struggling to shake off Jacob, who held him tight. "You're wrong!" His panic seemed to goad Frankenstein into snapping more close-ups with the camera.

Elizabeth hesitated, but only for a second. "Sam has abilities. He's not like most humans. He's unique. And stubborn. He'll fight it every step of the way, and that's the point. That's why it has to be him. No one else. He's the only one who's strong enough to contain…" She trailed off, catching herself. "Anyway, Azazel said not to spoil the surprise. Let's just say he's got one hell of an end game, and the less people know, the better."

"Elizabeth," Sam whimpered. "Please, stop!"

She ignored him. "And now it's starting to manifest. He's a psychic, and if he recognized a statue he's never seen before, I'd bet my life he had a premonition of it."

The words 'psychic' and 'premonition' were like punches in the gut. Sam envisioned Elizabeth stabbing Jessica, and couldn't believe it, but what other explanation was there for the statue's presence? He could hold onto the hope that the Stynes were somehow using his nightmares against him, but deep down, he sensed the truth, and if it wasn't for Jacob, he would have fallen to his knees.

"That's enough, Victor," Caroline said as Frankenstein took one last shot of Sam's face. He lowered the camera in disappointment. Slowly, Caroline made her way around Elizabeth and approached the captive. "You're terrified, sweetheart. Why? The statue itself is harmless, I can promise you that, which means it's something else. Something that hasn't transpired yet, here in this courtyard. Tell us about it, Sammy."

He shook his head. "No."

Caroline raised her eyebrows. "You're aware of the consequences for disobedience, aren't you, boy?"

They could force him to watch another harvest, but if he revealed the subject of his nightmares, it would turn their attention to Jessica. He couldn't let that happen. Gritting his teeth, he said, "I would rather die!"

"Would you?" She took another step toward him and gently stroked his cheek. "I doubt that." Sam jerked his head away, but her hand followed relentlessly. "Even if you managed to kill yourself, which you won't, our family has the ability to reanimate your corpse. And in the process, we would condition your brain to respond violently to certain people. John. Dean. Hunters in general. How would you like to return from the grave with such a blood lust? And how do you imagine they'd feel falling victim to it? So you see, death is no refuge. Not for you."

Sam never once considered death a refuge. As cruel and evil as the world could be, and as much as he hoped for heaven, life was still precious, and he desperately wanted to spend it with his loved ones. Unfortunately, that didn't make Caroline's words less suffocating, and it grew more difficult to breathe. "My dreams are none of your business."

"Dreams?" she said, smiling. "Now we're getting somewhere."

Before she could follow up on her assertion, she was interrupted by Elizabeth muttering under her breath. Something on the ground flashed crimson, and the next thing Sam knew, Jacob's grip around his body loosened. He managed to break free, stumbling sideways to avoid Caroline's frozen figure. Frozen? Looking around, he realized all the Stynes except Elizabeth were rooted to their spots, as if time had come to a standstill.

"What—?" As Sam and the Fontaines watched, Elizabeth shakily stood up, still girding her tattered dress while blood dripped down her hands. At her feet, a pattern of red sigils sparkled magically.

"Elizabeth…" Arthur held out his arm, warning her back, while Paige covered her mouth. "What did you do?"

"A blood binding spell," she said weakly. "They can't muzzle me forever. My powers are improving and want to be unleashed!" She took a tentative step toward her father, eyes fixed on his amulet.

"No!" Sam cut her off, half expecting her telekinesis to propel him out of her way. But the spell had taken a toll on her, and she stopped short, staring at him uncertainly. "You said destroying an amulet should be a last resort."

"Sam, the binding spell won't hold them indefinitely. We don't have time for other options."

"I won't let you," he replied softly. "Unless you can guarantee the safety of those people in the lab, there has to be another way." It pained him to obstruct her. They could end this right now! They could kill the Stynes, and protect Jessica. But at what cost? Sometimes, the easy way wasn't the best way. "Where do they keep their weapons?" If they had some guns, they could kill the Stynes with less collateral damage.

Elizabeth groaned, but they were on the clock, and arguing would take too long. "We have to hurry."

"You can't!" Arthur objected, still loyal to the Stynes. He made a desperate grab for Elizabeth, and Sam promptly elbowed him in the nose. His fight with Jacob steeled him for tougher opponents, and he forgot Arthur was an ordinary man. Blood gushed everywhere, and the lawyer fell to his knees.

Paige shrieked. Elizabeth's eyes widened.

"No, no, no!"

Before any of them could stop it, Arthur reached out to smear his blood over the closest sigil.

"You bastard!" Elizabeth screamed.

Caroline turned, waving her arm. "Dormite."

Everything went dark.

 **SPN**

Sam did not want to wake up. He could already taste the medical tape wedged in his mouth, and he could already feel the nylon straps binding him to the dentist's chair. He knew where he was, and what awaited him, and he much preferred unconsciousness. But then someone waved smelling salts under his nose; the ammonia filled his nostrils, forcing him to breathe. It was disgusting, and he inadvertently convulsed.

Sure enough, the straps held him in check. Flustered, he blinked and stared up at Freddie, who had a wild look in his eyes. Beyond him, Jacob, William and Earl were busy moving a dark-haired woman from her cylindrical pod over to an operating table. A gag muffled her screams, but not sufficiently to hide her panic. She knew she was going to die.

No! Sam wrenched himself against his unyielding restraints, which made Freddie smirk. He twisted his legs around, trying to slide his feet under the ankle strap, but the more he struggled, the more the nylon bit his skin. He was stuck, and he moaned in frustration. Not again!

Freddie leaned over him, pressing his hand against his neck to prevent a headbutt. "When are you going to learn you can't escape?" he whispered aggressively. "Not that I mind. You see that girl over there?" He jerked his chin toward their next victim. "Doesn't she look like fun? I have permission to play with her before the harvest starts."

Sam renewed his efforts to break free, shouting into his gag. He couldn't watch this! Not _this_!

As if reading his mind, Freddie nodded. "Think of her as my warm-up for your girlfriend." He laughed and planted a long, wet kiss on Sam's forehead before turning to join his family.

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Monday, October 26, 2005)**

Another day. Another nightmare.

Sam sat stiffly on his knees in front of an antique coffee table with a marble surface. Across from him, Caroline supervised in a cream-colored armchair. They were alone, silent and stubborn. Hanging in the window, a sun-catcher tossed shimmering light around the drawing room, and Sam focused on nothing else. His heart was heavy, and his throat hurt from screaming. His wrists and ankles were chafed; his thumb was on fire.

"You're depressed," Caroline eventually said, after an hour of observation. Sam didn't have the energy to comment on her profound insight, so he ignored her. "Oh, sweetie, you need to snap out of it, or I'll put you back to bed. I'm sure you'll have pleasant dreams."

Sam flinched. "I won't do it."

"Another harvest, then?"

Anger flared through him, and he finally met her gaze. "You should know, you're wasting your time. Even if you turn me Dark Side, I'll be so full of hatred that nothing will stop me from killing you."

She leaned forward, unfazed. "I believe you. But we still have miles to go before you're strong enough to challenge me, and once this wedding's over, we'll direct our attention back to a certain ritual involving some prized legacies, so even if you kill us, it won't be permanent."

His shoulders sagged, and he looked away. If the Stynes sacrificed his dad, or Dean, or both of them, they would have the 'blessing' of reincarnation after their deaths. They would be reborn, and Sam wouldn't be able to stop it. He clenched his fists. "Go to hell."

Caroline brightened at the prospect. "Do you have any idea what all they teach us there? It's an inspiring place. Every time we go, we come back much improved. That's why our family will survive the coming reign of terror. And it's also why, sooner or later, you will succumb to us." She gestured at the six marble-sized crystals lying on the table. Two were obsidian, two were lapis lazuli, one was smoky quartz, and one was ruby. "Now you can either cooperate or return to the laboratory. Which will it be?"

Trembling, Sam stared at the crystals. Now that Caroline knew he had psychic abilities, she wanted to test them, to gauge his potential and begin his training. After all, Azazel wanted him 'ready,' and she was eager to help. By assessing his interaction with the crystals, she would customize a curriculum to suit his needs. But first he had to play along, and he was steadily refusing to touch the damn things.

Of course, that was only until she threatened him with the laboratory. Such threats worked every time, and he shifted despondently. The blue ones were the least threatening, but he was still reluctant to pick any of them up. Not that he had a choice. Slowly, he reached out, dread making him sweat, while Caroline sat up straight, excited and expectant. But before his fingers could graze the crystal, they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Sam yanked back his hand, and Caroline sighed. Together, they glanced around to find Cyrus watching tentatively with a thin workbook in his arms. "I'm sorry to bother you, Aunt Caroline, but… the musicians have arrived for their auditions… and I was hoping… Sam could help me with my multiplication?" Unsure of himself, his request became a question, and he averted his eyes.

"The musicians?" Caroline seemed caught off guard. "Already? Where has the time gone?" Sam felt a rush of relief as she retrieved the crystals, dropping them one-by-one in a small velvet pouch. "We'll have to pick this up later, Sammy, but rest assured, you're not off the hook. Now then." She fixed him with a cold, stern glare. "If I leave you here with Cyrus, you're not going to hurt the lad, are you?"

Hurt him? Sam was startled by the very idea, and Caroline shook her head dismissively.

"Of course you won't. He's still a pure, innocent child; I doubt he could squash a fly, and you don't have what it takes to lay a hand on him. Not yet, anyway." She stood up, straightened her dress, and sailed across the room. Pausing to stroke Cyrus' hair, she said, "Behave yourselves," and disappeared into the hallway. With her, she took a weight from Sam's shoulders, and he felt himself relax.

"Thank you," he whispered as Cyrus awkwardly approached him. No response. The boy was busy scanning his surroundings, as if searching for something. Spies? Cameras? Sam chose not to pester him and waited patiently until he sat at his side, dropping the workbook on the coffee table. Even then, they hesitated to strike up a conversation, not knowing where to start.

Finally, Sam picked up the workbook and flipped to the last page with pencil writing on it. He checked Cyrus' math, and quickly realized the boy knew his numbers. He didn't need any help; he just lied to his aunt. Sam set the book aside and gave him an appreciative smile. "You didn't have to do that."

"I had to do something," Cyrus whispered so softly that Sam could barely hear him. "They're all bad guys, aren't they? Even Lilibet."

Sam found himself at a loss. What kind of person would tell a child that his family's evil? Even if it was necessary, it wasn't fair. "That doesn't mean you have to be."

Tears welled up in Cyrus' eyes. "Yes it does. If I step out of line, they'll punish me." Like they punished Elizabeth. Sam understood all too well his fear, shame, and helplessness.

 _He could be acting…_ It was a terrible, paranoid thought, which Sam quickly discarded. Even if the Stynes were setting him up with a false friend as a cruel joke, he didn't care. After four days of constant misery, he was desperate for a moment of compassion. "Cyrus… My dad and my brother will stop at nothing to get me out of here. If you want, I'll bring you with us. I promise."

The boy turned at lightning speed and anxiously wrapped his arms around Sam's body, burying his face in his clothes. Astonished, Sam held him gently, and didn't move.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	15. Trial by Fire

_**Author**_ _ **'s Note:**_ _I'm taking some creative liberties in this chapter, but it's already an AU, so that shouldn't be a problem. I think you're going to like it! For me, it was a lot of fun!_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Monday, October 26, 2005)**

After setting cameras in place around 111 Monarch Avenue, Special Agent Calvin Reidy took up watch from the safety of their base inside a nearby vacant mansion. Meanwhile, Victor Henriksen and Nathan Findley sat doggedly in their unmarked sedan over a mile away, on West Paces Ferry Road, where they could easily pick up the trail of anyone leaving Monarch Avenue without being noticed. So when Reidy called to warn them about a limousine exiting the Styne portal, they were ready.

It had been a long wait with no activity the day before, but Findley was accustomed to tedious stakeouts. This wasn't his first rodeo. When the limousine came into sight, they followed from a safe distance. In the back of his mind, Findley remembered Dean's command to shoot the Stynes at the first opportunity—it's not like they were dealing with normal criminals, so the law shouldn't apply, right?

Wrong. Findley couldn't condone such thinking, and neither could Henriksen. Monsters maybe, but the Stynes were still human. Some of them were foreigners, and Findley loathed the idea of an international incident. Talk about a complication. No. For the moment, they would proceed with their investigation as carefully as possible, and get a better grasp on the situation. After all, they didn't answer to Dean.

From Buckhead, they drove to the international airport where the limousine picked up an assortment of men and women dressed in business professional. Some of them carried instrument cases—violins and saxophones. From the airport, they returned to Monarch Avenue, leaving the feds to speculate on why the Stynes required musicians.

Three hours later, the limousine ventured once more into the real world. Again, Findley and Henriksen pursued it. They arrived back at the airport, where the men and women were safely released. Apparently, their services were no longer necessary. As they all went their separate ways, Henriksen called airport security for assistance. Maybe they could determine what the Stynes were up to.

Strangely, most of the musicians disappeared. Their ability to evade the guards, the cameras, and every other security system was uncanny—if not completely supernatural. Only one man, a French concert pianist, exposed himself, and when brought in for questioning, he happily made his statement.

The Stynes were collaborating with witches from around the world to throw an extravagant wedding for two of their relatives—namely Elizabeth and her cousin Victor. (Findley grimaced at the incestuous engagement.) The musicians were summoned to audition for the ceremony, and the pianist was offended by their final selection. He was _much_ more qualified than those amateur violinists. (Which explained his cooperation with the feds. He had a grudge, and wasn't going to let the Stynes get away with such disrespect.)

The wedding was scheduled for Sunday night, November 1st. Six days from now. As Findley and Henriksen drove back to their post in Buckhead, they pondered the implications.

 **SPN**

Sam and Cyrus were given three hours, more or less, to collect themselves and befriend each other. They said very little, having no desire for small talk, but in other ways, they felt the onset of a deep, perhaps reckless, connection. Sam learned that Cyrus wasn't just young; he was new. While the other Stynes had been reborn from past lives, Cyrus was experiencing his first. So when Caroline called him 'a pure, innocent child,' she was not exaggerating.

Together, they tried sneaking out of the drawing room. Sam hoped that Cyrus' presence would somehow override the protective warding, but he was wrong. While the boy was able to enter the hallway, when Sam crossed the threshold, he found himself back inside, near the coffee table. He didn't bother letting the magical encumbrance upset him; he should have expected it. Resigned, he sat on the floor and prayed for his dad and Dean to hurry. Cyrus faithfully joined him, and they took comfort from each other, mostly in silence.

When Caroline returned, smug and energized, she favored them both with a wide smile. "Still here?" Sam averted his eyes while she reclaimed her seat in the armchair. He hated how easy it was for them to control so much of his existence, and he hated how much they enjoyed it. "I'm so sorry for the interruption. That took longer than anticipated. Musicians can be such narcissists—especially from the Coven. Now then. Where were we?"

She paused, and Cyrus glanced at Sam uncertainly. It was obvious that Caroline wanted him to reply, and it wasn't a good idea to keep her waiting, but Sam stubbornly refused. He knew what she had in mind—those crystals—and he knew he couldn't resist. His only alternative was the laboratory, and the thought made his blood run cold.

But the crystals were just as frightening. If Sam had psychic abilities, as Elizabeth maintained, they could be responsible for attracting the demon. And if they were part of Azazel's strategy, then Sam wanted nothing to do with them. Especially when they beleaguered him with dreams of Jessica's death. So while he knew it was pointless and futile, he ignored his captor anyway.

"Cyrus," Caroline eventually said. "Run along, would you? Sam's break is over, and he needs to concentrate." As the boy dutifully climbed to his feet, she added, "And if you see your brother, kindly inform him to expect another harvest."

"NO!" Sam glanced from Cyrus to Caroline in a panic. "I'm sorry! Please don't kill anyone!" The link between harvesting and murder made Cyrus' jaw drop, but thankfully, Caroline didn't notice. Her attention was fixed on Sam.

"Tell you what," she said patiently, displaying the velvet pouch in her hand. "If you play along, convincing us you're happy and willing to be here, then tomorrow, we'll free a lab rat. And for every day you behave yourself, we'll free another." She opened the pouch and placed the marble-sized crystals on the coffee table, one by one, which turned Sam's stomach.

"You expect me to believe that?"

Caroline shrugged. "Apparently positive reinforcement can work as well as, if not better than, negative reinforcement. We'll have to wipe their memories before releasing them, but I'm willing to give it a try if you are. I mean, who's it going to hurt?"

Her sincerity left Sam speechless. Not only was she giving him the opportunity to delay more violence; she was giving him the opportunity to prevent it altogether! How could he refuse? It was obviously another mind game—they had been chipping away at his defenses ever since he arrived, trying to break him, and if they were willing to forego his 'desensitization,' it wasn't from the kindness of their hearts. But if he could save those people, a few mind games were worth the risk, weren't they? Even if it meant dabbling with dangerous, potentially catastrophic abilities?

"How do I know you won't just kill them behind my back?"

"Oh, sweetie…" She sounded hurt by his distrust. "If you really are psychic, and if you apply yourself to your studies, you'll be able to see the truth for yourself. No one will ever be able to lie to you or trick you again. You have my word."

Sam wavered, wrestling with his fear. Lives were at stake! And would it really be so bad to explore these abilities and get a feel for them? To understand them? Knowledge was power, and if he hoped to combat the demon, he needed as much information as possible. Right? Maybe he could use this against them! Right?

No… He'd be opening Pandora's Box. It's what they wanted. For all he knew, this could be his first irreversible step toward unleashing the future Elizabeth described. Darkness. Disease. Death. He'd be responsible for it. No. Whatever the cost, he couldn't let the Stynes manipulate him. He had to fight!

But fighting meant the laboratory, and at that moment, nothing scared him more than the laboratory. Confused, he clenched his fists and bowed his head. "Okay…" From the corner of his eye, he watched Cyrus fall back a step. The boy wouldn't be able to stop it this time. No more distractions. Not without a miracle. "Okay," he said again. "I can do this."

Caroline smiled triumphantly, and while she didn't look away from her captive, she addressed her nephew. "What did I say, Cyrus? Run along. And if you see your brother, don't trouble him."

"Yes ma'am," he replied, and as he scampered out of the room, Sam felt an odd blend of fear, relief, and gratitude.

Alone together, Caroline lowered her voice. "Take a deep breath, son." Her gentleness was not the least bit reassuring, but Sam still listened, letting the air fill his lungs. It brought to mind his dad, who once coached him through several breathing exercises to keep thoughts of ghosts and other monsters from overwhelming him—it could be a traumatic life for little children. Unfortunately, no amount of oxygen could soothe his nerves, and the memory of his dad only brought tears to his eyes.

"I wish I could tell you what to expect," Caroline said regretfully. "But it's not an exact science, and Lilibet was right; you are different. I don't know how the crystals will react to your touch, but I promise, you don't have to fear them. They aren't cursed. They aren't evil. They're simply harnesses to help you manage your own untamed potential."

Sam took another deep breath. "I mean no disrespect," he said. "But if these… abilities… are just now starting to surface, is it really wise to wield them prematurely? Wouldn't it be safer for them to develop at their own rate?"

"Not necessarily," she replied, pleased to hear a legitimate question. "You're not some kind of monster, Sam. You're still human. And the sad truth is most humans don't possess psychic powers. They're unnatural, which means your body has to adjust. The sooner, the better. Otherwise, your brain will either attempt to repress your abilities, or they will run rampant, driving you insane. You have to believe me, this is for your own good."

"Yes ma'am," Sam said reluctantly, as much as he liked the idea of repressing his abilities.

There was nothing left to say or do. Caroline had him cornered, and she would only tolerate so much indecision. Trembling, Sam reached out and took one of the blue crystals between his thumb and forefinger. At first, all was quiet. Eerily quiet. He felt childish for being so apprehensive.

But then, gradually, his vision began to sharpen. The colors in the room—especially the light from the sun-catcher—grew more vibrant, and he definitely noticed a malevolent energy swirling around him. He wasn't imagining it. Was it caused by Caroline? Or their location between realities?

As he watched, the crystal lit up with a shimmering sapphire glow. So did its twin on the coffee table. Before Sam could register the implications, Caroline snatched the second blue crystal, and suddenly, their minds were linked. The malevolent energy he was sensing must have been from their location, because now he perceived such cruelty that it took his breath away.

 _Sam…_

Her lips didn't move, and her voice resonated not externally, but inside his mind. Even more appalling, he did not speak his response—he was too winded.

 _Get out of my head!_ he projected his thoughts, and Caroline admired his raw talent. Like a real mother, she was starting to dream about all the possibilities he had ahead of him. Not just wealth and power, but fame as well. And through his prosperity, the Stynes could forsake their lives of secrecy. They could finally claim their rightful positions as global monarchs. Or even gods. Sam balked at this realization. _GET OUT OF MY HEAD!_

 _I'm not in your head, Sam,_ she replied evenly. _You're in mine._

Of course. Caroline wasn't psychic. She had many powers, but she was not a mind reader. She was simply opening herself up, allowing him easy access to her thoughts and feelings. Sam backpedaled, desperate to flee, and when he couldn't, he dropped the crystal, instantly severing the connection.

"I'm sorry," he said as the crystal clanked across the floor, no longer glowing. Caroline reached her hand out after it and beckoned with her fingers. It soared to her grasp, and she calmly set it and its twin back on the table.

"No need to apologize," she assured him. "You're doing very well, and it was your first time, after all. I understand how daunting it can be. Let's try again. With the obsidian, perhaps."

Sam glanced warily at the two black crystals—more like dark mirrors. He could see his reflection on their glassy surfaces. What would contact with them reveal?

Just get it over with. He closed his eyes and picked one up. He didn't see it start to glow. He didn't see its twin start to glow, but when Caroline touched it, he again felt her presence. He would have shied away, but the crystal worked like an anchor, locking him in place for the onslaught of a harrowing vision.

He found himself in three places at once. First, he remained on the floor of the drawing room in the safe house.

Next, he was standing by himself in a wide open field. Night had fallen, and the heavens were radiant with millions of stars and the Milky Way.

Finally, he was tucked in a warm bed, gradually drifting off to sleep. All was calm.

Outside, the grass felt silky to his bare feet. As he gazed up at the sky, he was mesmerized by an impressive meteor shower. It was beautiful. Gorgeous. Peaceful.

In the drawing room, Sam covered his mouth with his free hand.

A shadowy figure entered the nursery. Thanks to a crescent moon nightlight hanging on the wall, Sam could see his face—and his yellow eyes. No! He tried sitting up, but his blankets enveloped him like a cocoon. He whimpered pathetically as the demon loomed over him. They stared at each other. Then, the demon held out his wrist and used his own nail to slice the skin. Blood oozed out of the injury and dripped straight into Sam's mouth, tasting like iron and sulfur.

Outside, heavy storm clouds rolled overhead. Caught off guard, Sam stumbled backwards and landed on his butt. A bolt of lightning crashed into the ground, mere feet away, scorching the earth. Sam watched in alarm as the grass countered by stretching out to extraordinary lengths. The blades began braiding themselves together, forming dozens of tough, thick, rope-like vines.

More blood splattered against his tongue.

The vines slithered in his direction. Frantic, he wriggled away, but wasn't fast enough. One wrapped around his ankle and tugged, dragging him into their midst. Another wrapped around his knees, pinning his legs together. It coiled upwards, binding his thighs. Sam choked on his own breath and made an anxious attempt to rip them off. His wrists were quickly snared by two separate vines. They pulled his left arm to the right, and his right arm to the left, so he was hugging his own torso. More vines wrapped around his waist and coiled all the way up to his shoulders, fixing his arms in their uncomfortable position.

"Let me go!"

A sinister vine slid around his neck. It proceeded up his face, crawled through his hair, around his head and over his eyes, effectively blindfolding him. When he tried shaking it off, it clung like a squid. Another vine jostled straight into his mouth, explored his tongue, and ventured toward his throat. At that, he panicked, struggling wildly and helplessly.

Thunder rumbled in the treacherous sky.

"Enough!" Caroline snapped, and the obsidian crystal mercifully released him. Sam dropped it and scrambled to his feet, sweating and shaking like a child.

"What the hell was that?" he demanded, surprised to see a look of fury on Caroline's face.

"That bastard," she snarled. "He bound you!"

Sam shook his head. "What?"

"Azazel," she said, standing up. Sam tensed as she summoned all six crystals to her hands. "You were born with powerful abilities, and that yellow-eyed son of a bitch tarnished them with his blood. You have to understand, demons use blood for long-distance communication. Now Azazel has a direct link to your mind. He can influence your dreams, your visions, everything. He has a greater command of your powers than you do, and he's repressing them, giving you just enough leash to suit his needs. The audacity!"

Sam's blood was tarnished with Azazel's? No wonder they called him tainted! There was demon in him!

Caroline remained indignant. "I mean, I might be blocking Lilibet's powers, but that's for her own safety and discipline! I would never violate her by perverting them against her will! Who does he think he is?"

She was angry with Azazel? Azazel was a demon! This could be to Sam's advantage! And yet, when she circled around the coffee table and made her advance on him, he still backed away—not that he had anywhere to go. Thankfully, she didn't seem concerned with his behavior—she was too distracted.

"Give me your hand," she said when she finally cornered him against the wall. "We're fixing this." She grabbed his wrist and forced the smoky quartz crystal into his palm, covering it with her own. Sam braced himself, unprepared, and found himself back in the dark field. It was like an out-of-body experience. He could see his double on the ground, writhing ineffectually against the grassy vines that restrained him. With the blindfold and the tendril infiltrating his mouth, he was a wretched sight.

"What are we doing here?" he asked, sensing Caroline beside him.

"This is a portion of the spirit world cordoned off specifically for you, Sam," she said. "And that right there is your spirit. Look what Azazel has done to it." The vines weren't just holding him in place; they were constantly shifting, prodding, pulling, squeezing. Sam felt sick, and Caroline scowled. "A reaper might be able to free you, but let's be honest, with all the vengeful ghosts and spirits haunting the world, most reapers aren't that committed. I've died more than once; I've met my share of the arrogant bastards. If they find you like this, they won't bother getting their hands dirty. No one's going to save you, Sam. Except yourself."

"How?"

Before she could answer, a new voice penetrated the dark. "Caroline Styne!" They turned to see a large man dressed in ripped jeans and a military field jacket. His shoulders were as broad as Jacob's, and his eyes were a deep yellow. Sam stumbled backwards while Caroline stepped between them. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I should be asking you that," Caroline retorted. "I thought you wanted Sam sharp and ready for whatever you have in store. Why would you handicap him?"

"Handicap him?" Azazel looked appalled. "I didn't handicap him! He was a wild horse, and I simply applied the reins. What's wrong with that?"

"You're restricting him! Can you imagine what he could accomplish by reaching his full potential?"

Azazel laughed derisively. "There's only one thing he needs to accomplish, my dear, and I can't take any chances. I've worked too hard." He approached her, but she held her ground defiantly. "We're on the same side. Why complicate things?"

Caroline shook her head. "You disgust me."

Azazel rolled his eyes. "Please. You're one to talk. I happen to know you're doing the exact same thing to your precious daughter, and don't bother denying it." He glanced over her shoulder. "Hiya, Sammy! You're not falling for this, are you?" Sam's voice was caught in his throat. "Caroline acts all offended, but she couldn't care less about your freedom. It's just another game. If she saves you, you'll be in her debt, and she'll use that against you. Trust me."

"Trust you?" Sam exclaimed. "You killed my mom! Didn't you?"

Azazel sighed. "And Caroline has every intention of killing John and Dean. Cost of doing business, I'm afraid."

"Sam," Caroline said firmly, without turning from the demon. "The crystal you have is cleansing. It will center you, and relieve you from psychic blocks. Concentrate on its energy. Let it wash over you."

Sam glanced uncertainly at the smoky quartz sitting on his palm. Behind him, the vines tightened possessively around his spirit, at once crushing and smothering him. Lightning flashed through the clouds, and Azazel took another step forward. Caroline extended her arm, telekinetically holding him at bay.

"Do you really think you can fight me?" Azazel growled. "That boy is mine, and if you try—"

"Yours?" Caroline interjected. "He _was_ yours, but then you gave him to us! You should have known better. Perhaps Monroe thought to return him, but when I receive something, I keep it. Sam belongs to us now, and we will raise him as we see fit."

"You crazy bitch." Azazel raised his arms out to his sides, and fire erupted from the ground. Blazing hot, it circled around Sam, Caroline, and the bound spirit. "You can't curb me forever. I'm stronger than you."

"Sam, you have to hurry!" Caroline called back to him. "He's not wrong about that!"

Sam considered dropping the crystal. Why help Caroline? If Azazel killed her, it would be one less Styne to worry about. But then what? Would Sam be stuck here in the spirit world? Would Azazel take off with him in tow? Who was the lesser evil? Azazel or the woman? Like that was any contest.

Taking a deep breath, Sam closed his eyes and clamped his fist around the crystal. He welcomed its warmth and sensed its calming glow.

"That won't heal you, Sammy," Azazel warned him. "You can't undo what I have done. It might grant you temporary remission, but that's the best you can hope for. And when I get my hands on you, I'll drench you in my blood. Make you relapse."

"I'll never let that happen," Caroline protested.

Amazingly, Sam tuned them out. An odd sensation coursed through his body, like sunlight on a crisp spring morning. Refreshing. Comforting. Invigorating. He still sensed the evil surrounding him, and he instinctively pushed it away.

Unfortunately, the effort came with a price—pressure plowing against his skull. He winced, but didn't back down. He had to keep fighting.

While Caroline and Azazel grappled with each other, Sam focused on the flames. He recognized them. The same flames that incinerated his nursery. He could tap into them; maybe redirect them. Kill everyone. End this.

The two monsters realized their mistake at the same moment, and they quickly backpedaled. Caroline dropped her hold on Azazel, and he struggled to quench the flames. Sam added more fuel. The fire escalated. Overhead, the clouds began dispersing. The stars came out. The Milky Way gleamed gorgeously.

"SAM!"

He couldn't distinguish the voice. As fire burned everywhere, he finally felt free.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I always had some issues with the show's portrayal of Sam's abilities. They're never well defined or fully developed. I was so disappointed when he only used his telekinesis in that one episode with Max Miller, and I was crushed when his abilities went dormant in season 3. I never understood how exorcising demons had anything to do with psychic powers, but whatever. I still love_ Supernatural _. I just wanted more, if that makes sense. Thankfully, we have fanfiction to give us more! :-p Let me know what you think!_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	16. Raising the Stakes

_**Author's Note:**_ _So this fic is officially longer than its prequel! Apparently, I can't stop myself. Lol. Thank you all for your continued support! It's what keeps me going. :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Monday, October 26, 2005)**

Hours later, Sam woke up in his bed, under the heavy black covers. Beyond the Gothic window, it was well past dark, and a chill filled the air. His head was almost as sore as his thumb, and as he sat up, he wearily massaged his temples. Immediately, he noticed his wet hair and missing sweater—he had been stripped from the waist up, but thankfully still had on a pair of jeans. Damn. What happened?

What was going on? Everything felt different. Sam felt different—as if a missing piece of himself had finally been restored. He couldn't explain it. How do color blind people describe color? All he knew was that he had been drowning his whole life, and now he had finally reached the surface where he could breathe again, only to discover a realm of icy, malicious evil. He sensed it all around him. The Stynes' magic always came with a price, and for the first time, he wondered what it cost to burrow this space between realities. How many died so the Stynes could build their safe house?

Shuddering, Sam tried to recall how he got here. He had been in the drawing room with Caroline, testing his abilities. There was an open field. A fire. An inferno. And then he was on the ground, thoroughly exhausted, with charred grass crumbling to ash around him. Nearby, a man and woman endeavored to combat the flames; when they finished, they approached him warily.

"Too much at once, I think," the woman said.

"Are you trying to start a war, Caroline?" the man asked dangerously.

"Oh, don't be over-dramatic," she replied. "I may have let my emotions cloud my judgment, but can you blame me? The boy is gifted. A hunter. A _legacy_. With the proper guidance, there's no limit to what he could accomplish! And you compromised that. So yes, I acted rashly, but you deserved it."

"I'm on my way to Atlanta," he warned her. "And you will return what's rightfully mine. Got it?"

She scoffed. "I guess we'll see."

With those words ringing in his ears, Sam lost consciousness. Caroline must have seen him safely back to his quarters, where she cleaned him up and put him to bed. It was a disconcerting thought, but not as disconcerting as Azazel's threat. Could demons invade this place? Could they dispel the protective wardings to gain entry? If not, did that make Sam's prison his only refuge?

Just great. He didn't need another reason to remain with the Stynes! It was bad enough they were using those people in the laboratory to twist his arm. Now he was depending on them for protection from Azazel. Did they plan all this? Could they possibly be _that_ manipulative?

Groaning, Sam curled up under his sheets. He was freezing, and he didn't have the energy for the same defiance he displayed on his first night in this forsaken room. He was still tired, and all he wanted was to fall back asleep. Somehow, he doubted his dreams would bother him—Azazel's connection had been broken—at least for the moment.

He would have to remember to thank Caroline for her interference.

 **SPN**

"You told him _what_?" Jacob demanded, thoroughly vexed.

He stood at attention in the parlor, where Caroline sat sipping tea with William and Victor. They had just learned the details of her training session with Sam. How she promised to release a lab rat every twenty-four hours if he behaved himself, and how she unlocked his psychic powers while royally screwing Azazel. Jacob had to give her credit; she was bold, elegant, and effective. But also callous. Didn't she realize how this would affect him?

"Calm down, Jacob," she said softly. "I know how you feel about the boy; how your bond grows with every harvest. But don't worry. There will be plenty of other opportunities for you to strengthen your relationship. He's not going anywhere."

Jacob sighed and stroked his chin, still agitated. His new brother was a delight, and after his stint in jail, he had a better appreciation for time spent with family. It should be cherished. Cultivated. And Jacob never felt closer to Sam than when he was tormenting him. How would releasing lab rats benefit anyone? It'd be like taking the wrong turn. But who was he to second-guess the family's matriach?

"You've made him more powerful," William observed. "More dangerous. According to your own evaluation, he doesn't just have extrasensory perception and telepathy, but also a knack for channeling the abilities of those around him. Even demons! You said he tapped into Azazel's fire? How do you intend to manage him and Lilibet at the same time without collapsing?"

Caroline set her cup down on its saucer. "Why should I 'manage' Sam when he'll be managing himself? He remains innocent to a fault. Honest. Gentle. Compassionate. His powers have been purified, that's true, but he's trapped in an environment he considers repugnant. Our presence upsets him enough already. Do you really think he wants to share our thoughts and feelings? No. Until he's desensitized, he'll do whatever it takes to tune us out. The wedding will be over, and Lilibet in Victor's care, long before he's a threat to any of us."

A thrill of excitement expelled Jacob's displeasure. "You mean I can walk right into Sammy's bedroom and he'll sense my… affection for him?"

Caroline smiled. "Not only that, but if you remind him of our little agreement concerning the lab rats—which you found so irksome a minute ago—he'll be obliged to welcome it."

Jacob had to draw from years of discipline to keep from salivating. He could only imagine what Freddie would say. This changed everything, and could potentially be as much fun as a harvest. He wondered how easily he could excuse himself from this family meeting.

"Get your mind out of the gutter," Victor growled viciously, making Jacob bristle. "You might not be thrilled about the wedding, but our reputation's at stake, and now we have a demon to appease. So unless you concentrate on the matter at hand, that boy you're so eager to play with will be taken from you in a few short days."

Jacob narrowed his eyes. It was not Victor's place to chastise him. They were peers—which was more than the European deserved, given his notoriety. Fame was not something the Stynes sought. They depended on secrecy. So where did the bastard get off lecturing him? Even if his words had merit?

Fortunately, William interjected. "Victor, mark my words. No demon will ever best our family. Not even Azazel. We will either make him see reason, or we will banish him straight to hell. Don't worry about that."

"With all due respect, sir… How?"

"Oh, I know a spell," William assured him. "But I'd rather it not come to that. The cost is astronomical."

"I believe Azazel can be reasoned with," Caroline stated blithely. "He's only angry because I tampered with his leverage. He'll come around when he discovers how easy Sam is to coerce, even with his powers unchecked." She met her husband's gaze. "Why don't you reach out to him? Apologize for my short temper and invite him to the wedding where he can assess Sam's progress firsthand. We'll prove to him we're right for the boy."

"How?" Victor asked again.

A look of anticipation crossed the woman's face. "The reception still needs an entertainment act. Let's plan a harvest where Sam doesn't just watch. He performs the procedure." Her words were like music to Jacob's ears. He nearly laughed while an exasperated Victor tossed up his arms.

"How!? That boy would rather die than butcher an innocent human. How will we ever—?"

Caroline silenced him with a dismissive wave of her hand. "How else? By threatening him, of course! Sam responds well to threats, doesn't he? All we need is a fitting hostage, and he'll do whatever we command, even if it kills him."

"Who did you have in mind?" William asked intently. "It can't be John or Dean. They're legacies, and Sam knows we're going to sacrifice them whether he cooperates or not. He won't compromise his values for people who are going to die anyway."

"That's true."

"He has a girlfriend," Jacob pointed out. "I believe her name is Jessica. She'll serve quite nicely."

Everyone in the room—including Victor—visibly relaxed. With a plan in the works, they would soon have time to refocus their energy on more desirable endeavors.

 **SPN**

 **(** **Atlanta, Georgia … Tuesday, October 27, 2005)**

It was a chilly autumn morning, and Findley had cranked up the heat in his sedan. Next to him, Henriksen savored a scalding cup of coffee. They were back at their post on West Paces Ferry Road after a long night at their base, where they had taken turns sleeping so Reidy could get some rest as well. His partner would never say anything, but Henriksen knew he was exhausted. Investigating the supernatural had not been part of their training, and Reidy wanted nothing more than to put this case behind him. Henriksen sympathized.

Findley, on the other hand, was perfectly at ease. After tailing the Winchesters for thirteen months, he had seen his share of 'weird' occurrences—from a distance, perhaps, but that didn't make them any less disturbing. He had time to adapt, and Henriksen appreciated his resilience. Presently, he rubbed the back of his neck and glanced over at his supervisor. "We can't wait for the wedding to make our move. Sam's already been their prisoner too long. Another five days might be the death of him."

Henriksen nodded. "Got any better ideas? I'm all for busting in. We're in pursuit of fugitives, and the house doesn't technically exist, so I'm not worried about a warrant. But how the hell do we open the portal? You haven't heard back from Dean, have you?"

Findley sighed and shook his head. As Henriksen knew all too well, Dean wasn't returning his phone calls. Findley must have left him a dozen messages—all vague, but urgent—with no response. For all they knew, Dean had ditched his phone to prevent them from tracing his location. As if they were in a position to distrust each other!

They sat in silence for another few minutes, when suddenly Henriksen's cell began to vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket, checked the caller ID, and answered. "Reidy?"

"A limousine and two BMWs just left the portal," his partner said anxiously. How were they going to follow three separate vehicles? "They're on your way."

"Acknowledged," Henriksen said before hanging up. He met Findley's gaze. "We've got a limo and a couple BMWs en route. When you were following the Winchesters, did they ever part company?"

"Occasionally, but never for long," Findley replied, sensing the underlying question. "I always stuck with the pack leader. In this case, I'd recommend tailing the limo."

It was definitely a gamble. They couldn't predict who occupied which vehicle, or where they were all going. What if Jacob Styne was in a BMW? If they pursued the limo, he could be at large in the city. Henriksen had a bad feeling about this, but they didn't have time for indecision.

"Agreed."

When the procession came into sight, they followed from a safe distance, and sure enough, upon leaving Buckhead, the three vehicles took off in different directions. It pained Henriksen, but Findley kept pace with the limo. They made their way downtown where they seemed to tour Atlanta aimlessly. Eventually, they reached Woodruff Park where the limo came to a stop. It sat motionless for over an hour.

Damn. Something wasn't right, and the longer they waited, the more restless Henriksen became. "Findley, I don't like this."

"No sir."

As they watched, they were interrupted by Henriksen's vibrating phone. Once again, he checked the ID and took the call. "Reidy?"

"Hello, Agent Henriksen," a bone-chilling voice with a southern accent said. It wasn't Reidy, and Henriksen nearly dropped his coffee.

"Jacob."

Jacob Styne had Reidy's phone. Which meant the limo was a diversion. They let themselves be sidetracked while Jacob went after Reidy! Without a moment's hesitation, Findley turned the car around and sped back the way they came. They had to get to Buckhead as quickly as possible, or Reidy might face the consequences. If he hadn't already.

"I have to say, I'm surprised you found us," Jacob said conversationally. "You're a credit to the FBI. But honestly, how long did you think you could spy on us without detection?"

Henriksen's heart raced as he thought about his partner at the Stynes' mercy. It was all he could do to keep the panic from his voice. "Jacob, listen to me."

"No. I'm not calling to listen. You listen. We have a lot on our plates right now, and we don't need your harassment on top of everything. So back the hell off, or your friend's death will seem pleasant compared to yours."

"Jacob, wait—!"

On the other end of the line, five deafening shots were fired in rapid succession. Findley heard them as well as Henriksen, and he pulled off the road, slamming on the brakes. They sat in stunned disbelief.

 _Calvin!_

"If I were you," Jacob said with patronizing civility. "I would leave Atlanta and forget you ever had anything to do with us."

"I'm going to kill you," Henriksen replied, which only made his adversary laugh.

"Good luck, my friend. In the meantime, we're leaving the corpse where we found it as a courtesy. My cousin wants to recycle it, but then you might think we're bluffing. And believe me, Agent Henriksen, we're not bluffing. So you have until nightfall to collect his remains and run for the hills, or I swear, we'll make you regret your impudence."

With that, Jacob terminated the call.

Henriksen couldn't think, and he slammed his phone against the dashboard with a devastated howl. Next to him, Findley buried his face in his hands.

 **SPN**

Sam sensed her coming and wearily sat up. She was in a fine mood, which didn't bode well. When the door opened, her gleeful savagery hit him like a tidal wave, and he cringed, shaking pathetically. A moment later, she muttered something under her breath, and what little strength he had swiftly drained out of him. His body crumbled, and while he was still conscious, he found himself in a daze.

Satisfied, Caroline disappeared into his bathroom. She soon returned with an armful of toiletries and a small bucket. Sam moaned as she dumped them on his bedside table. Up until now, she had only troubled herself with his hygiene while he was asleep—which, all things considered, was preferrable to _this_.

As she pulled off his covers, he tried scrambling away, but his muscles were too sluggish. He simply squirmed and shook his head helplessly. "No…"

Sitting at his side, she began to sing. "Hush little baby, don't say a word." She reached for a bottle of dry shampoo and sprinkled some into his hair. "Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird." Sam flushed, and while the shampoo worked its magic, Caroline took a washcloth and scrubbed his face, not bothering to be gentle. "And when that mockingbird won't sing, mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring."

She lifted his head to wipe the back of his neck, then kissed his brow. The contact poured into him feelings of dominance, entitlement, and gratification. She owned him, and she wanted him to understand his place even with his newfound abilities. He was still a prisoner. He was still her son.

"And when that diamond ring turns to brass," she sang, picking up a comb. "Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass." Sam flinched as she roughly untangled his hair. "And when that looking glass gets broke, mama's gonna buy you a billy goat." He managed to raise an arm and tried to fend her off, but she easily batted his hand away. He heard himself whimpering.

"And when that billy goat won't pull, mama's gonna buy you a cart and bull." She set aside the comb and found a toothbrush. She quickly applied some paste and forced open Sam's jaw. He clenched his eyes shut as she stuck the brush in his mouth and slowly polished his teeth. "And when that cart and bull turn over, mama's gonna buy you a dog named Rover. And when that dog named Rover won't bark, mama's gonna buy you a horse and cart. And when that horse and cart fall down, you'll still be the sweetest little baby in town."

Laughing, she rolled Sam to his side and had him spit in the bucket—he was in no condition to refuse. She then gave him mouthwash, which he also spat in the bucket. "That a boy," she said, returning him to his back.

"Stop…" he pleaded, much to her amusement.

"We're not done," she playfully taunted, showing him a glass vial with some kind of oil in it. She removed the stopper and spilled the stuff on his chest. It was cold, making him flinch, and it smelled like sandalwood. Caroline sighed, proceeding to spread the oil over his skin. Sam sensed her excitement and it was not matronly. "This one's my personal favorite."

Her hands roamed his upper body without inhibition. She massaged his shoulders, explored under his back, and stroked his arms. Through it all, he squirmed uncomfortably. The worst part was knowing how she felt. These psychic powers were not helping him; they were only emphasizing his vulnerability.

At last, she finished and withdrew to his closet, where she procured a dress shirt and a dark cashmere sweater. "Now Sammy," she said upon her return. "I hope you realize how generous I've been. Here you are, trying to resist, and we had an agreement. I told you we'd refrain from harvesting those lab rats, and even release them, on the condition that you play along."

Sam's spirits sank at the reminder.

Caroline winked. "Fortunately for you, I'm a forgiving woman. After last night, I can understand how something so trivial might slip your mind. But don't let it happen again, or you'll find yourself back in the laboratory at a moment's notice. You hear me?"

He couldn't keep the tears from his eyes, but he forced himself to nod. "Yes, ma'am."

"That a boy," she said with a smirk. "Now then, let's make you presentable." She helped him sit up and guided his arms through the sleeves of the dress shirt, which she buttoned up for him. Then, she shoved his arms into the sleeves of the sweater and pulled it over his head, as if dressing a doll. She straightened his clothes and fixed his collar. "You look so handsome, sweetheart."

He didn't reply. What could he possibly say?

Pleased with his restraint, Caroline ran her hand down the side of his leg. "We still have a few minutes before the spell wears off and your strength returns. I could rub your feet. Would you like that?" She produced another vial and poured some oil on her palm. As she rubbed her hands together, she shot him a cruel, twisted smile. "Well?"

He stared at her in disgust, tense and nauseous. She was obviously testing his resolve, daring him to object, but how could he? Unable to speak, he simply nodded and braced himself for her dreadful touch. It came forcefully. She started with his right foot, smearing on a liberal portion of the cold, smooth substance. The fragrance made Sam's head spin, and he groaned as Caroline dug her fingers painfully into his sensitive sole.

"You need to relax, Sammy," she told him, feigning concern—though she made little effort to hide the relish she actually felt. "You're not taking care of yourself."

Sam bit his tongue and closed his eyes. In his mind, he pictured Dean and yearned for his brother's protection. _Where are you!?_ But the longer he remained in the Stynes' custody, the harder it was to believe he would ever see his real family again.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	17. Trust

**SPN**

 **(New Orleans** **, Louisiana … Wednesday, October 28, 2005)**

Ravaged by Hurricane Katrina, much of the Big Easy remained in shambles. The flooding might be over, but the damage was catastrophic, and many wondered if New Orleans would ever recover. Thousands—maybe millions—of people were displaced, leaving behind an overwhelming number of condemned houses where only monsters and demons could safely lodge. Unless, of course, they were hunted by John Winchester.

Presently, he squared off against his most recent quarry, who sat tied to a chair beneath the black devil's trap painted on the ceiling. His name was Shax. He was a large bald man covered in piercings with a red serpent tattooed on his face. From what John understood, he was responsible for the Styne crest blighting Sam's wrist, and if the kid had been up to it, they would have hunted the bastard months ago. Good thing they didn't. John might need his inside knowledge.

The house they occupied was in a deserted neighborhood with no electricity. While light poured in through broken windows, it didn't illuminate so much as cast shadows. The floor was ruined, the furnishings unsalvageable. John pitied the owners, whoever they were, and hoped they had been safely evacuated far, far away. He certainly didn't need them showing up in the middle of his interrogation.

"Do you know who I am?" he eventually asked the artistic demon.

Shax scowled in such a way that made the serpent on his face appear to fluctuate. "We all know about you, John Winchester. You've made such a name for yourself. Not just a hunter. A righteous man. You should know, they have plans for you as well as your boy."

"So I've heard," John replied steadily. He was a master at hiding his emotions. The truth was, he couldn't figure out what those plans entailed, and the possibilities were unsettling. Why did it have to be Sam? Not that he wanted either of his children at risk, but at least Dean trusted him, listened to him, followed his lead. Dean would always be easier to protect than his little brother, a fact that disgruntled John to no end.

"Tell me, how can I be of assistance, Mr. Winchester?" Shax demanded, cocking his head. "My normal rates are quite steep, but for you, I can make an exception. Might I recommend the fifth pentacle of Mars? That seems to be your style. Or perhaps the name of every creature you ever slaughtered? That might fill your back."

John nodded. "I appreciate the wide selection. I don't suppose you gave my son a similar choice." It was not a question, and Shax leered at him.

"Oh, Sammy was a thrilling canvas. A privilege to work on."

John crossed the distance between them and backhanded the demon aggressively. "His name is Sam, and he's wanted by the Stynes, and you're going to help me ensure they never bother him again."

"Am I?" Shax countered, recovering quickly. "Now why would I betray my own friends—good friends—for the likes of you?"

John leaned forward, glaring into the demon's eyes. Thanks to a dozen voicemail messages, he knew all about the safe house in Atlanta, as well as Bobby's quest to gather the necessary ingredients to open the portal. One way or another, they would break in, he had no doubt about that. But once inside, they would need a plan of attack, and the more intel they had, the better. "Come on. You're a demon. How loyal could you possibly be?"

Shax scoffed. "Fair point, but given your reputation, Mr. Winchester, what do I get out of cooperating? You're just gonna exorcise me. That's not much of an incentive."

"I don't have to exorcise you," John replied. "I could just leave you like this. I'm sure someone—or something—will find you eventually. Might even release you." He watched the suspicion and desperation play across the demon's face. "Tell me about the Stynes. They must have weaknesses."

"They do," a new voice interrupted. Female. British. John turned to see a young brunette in a navy pea coat. Bela Talbot. Heiress. Thief. Royal pain in the ass. And yet at times surprisingly useful. It was her awareness of the Stynes that helped him rescue Sam thirteen months ago, and now, as she stepped through the gloomy room, wrinkling her nose at the mess, John felt a rush of hope.

Nevertheless, he couldn't contain his contempt. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She sighed, returning his gaze in exasperation. "Really, John? I'm here because you never stay in one place long enough for me to catch you somewhere civilized. I'm here to offer you a job, and considering your conversation with that— _thing_ —I have a feeling you'll be more than interested. So why don't you clean all this up and meet me outside where we'll discuss terms?"

As a hunter, John had no inclination to work with such a woman. She was selfish, conceited, unethical and sometimes cruel. But as a father, he considered the advantages of her expertise. "This job. It involves the Stynes?"

"As a matter of fact, it does."

He smirked and focused on the demon who dared to harm his son. Much to his satisfaction, Shax had the decency to cringe. "Well then. It sounds like I'll be exorcising you after all."

 **SPN**

Thirty minutes later, John joined Bela on the dilapidated porch outside the battered house. With the humidity, it felt much colder than it actually was, and she struggled to hide her discomfort. Of course, being in the midst of such devastation didn't help. Bela was accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and this might very well be her first experience with misfortune of any kind.

She looked up at John with pity in her wide green eyes. "How's that poor wretch? Did he survive the exorcism?"

"No," John said regretfully. "I don't know what kind of ink that demon was experimenting with, but it's definitely unholy, and his host never stood a chance. He was past saving."

"A shame."

They stood in momentary silence out of respect for everyone who had suffered through the recent storms—both natural and supernatural. At least, that was John's intention. He couldn't begin to judge Bela's state of mind. Eventually, he said, "The Stynes aren't just after my son. They've taken him. Last year, you claimed they're your competitors, so this job… I trust it's going to screw them?"

"That's the idea," she replied, snapping out of her reverie. "Here." She pulled out a glossy white envelope from inside her coat and gave it to him. "I managed to acquire this from a prospective client yesterday. I saw the crest and couldn't help myself."

John didn't recognize the name of the recipient, but when he turned over the envelope, he immediately recognized the image embossed on the flap. A two-headed bird behind a medieval shield. The Styne family's crest, and Sam's tattoo. "Well, what do we have here?" Bela had already broken the seal, so John opened the flap and pulled out a fancy wedding invitation. "Mr. and Mrs. William Styne request the honor of your presence at the marriage of their daughter, Elizabeth Styne to Victor Frankenstein, Sunday, the first of November, two thousand and five, at eight-thirty in the evening. 111 Monarch Avenue, Atlanta, Georgia. Reception to follow." He regarded Bela skeptically. "Is this a trap?"

She shrugged. "Could be. But if it is, the Stynes would have had to discover our connection and anticipate me scouting among their friends. Then, they'd have to cross their fingers, hoping I'd find the bait, take it, and offer it to you. Now that seems rather far-fetched. To me, anyway."

John rolled his eyes. "Maybe. Or maybe you acquired the invitation and offered your services to the Stynes, knowing they'd pay handsomely for my capture."

"Would they?" Bela asked. "Please. I thought I mentioned this last year; they're more than capable of collecting their own goods. They're not going to waste their money on me when they have the means to deal with you themselves."

Hesitating, John gave the invitation a second look. 111 Monarch Avenue. According to one of Dean's voicemails, that was the address to the Stynes' safe house. That was where they were holding Sam—if Monroe Styne's spirit had any credibility. So whether or not Bela's proposition was a trap, he didn't have a choice. "Say I believe you. What's the job?"

"Once in a lifetime, that's what," she replied eagerly. "I don't have the words to describe the wealth inside their underground château. 111 Monarch Avenue has been on my radar for years, but it can't be infiltrated. Not without the Stynes' permission. Now I finally have the opportunity to get through the door, but only a fool would go alone. Stealing from the Stynes? That's dangerous. I need someone to watch my back. Or better yet, someone to create a diversion. So. Who do you think is smart, skilled, and crazy enough to bring along?"

"Hmm." He should have known. With Bela, everything always came down to the plunder. "You do realize the flaw in your plan, don't you? How far do you think we'll get before someone recognizes me?"

She smiled slyly. "As it happens, I'm quite proficient in the art of disguise."

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… Wednesday, October 28, 2005)**

Since unleashing his abilities on Monday night, Sam was at his wits' end. Between the veiled threats, the mind games, the inadvertent psychic readings, and the overall misery of his predicament, he found it increasingly difficult to cope. Fortunately, Jacob, Frankenstein, Earl and Freddie were all out on some lengthy assignment, making it unusually quiet around the mansion. Sam still had to contend with Caroline, William, and the Fontaines, but he also had Cyrus, and the boy was undoubtedly a consolation.

When she wasn't harassing Sam, or making wedding arrangements, Caroline spent her free time trying to coach him. "If you ever studied psychology, you know the human brain is constantly bombarded by sensory input. However, it automatically filters out irrelevant 'noise' to prevent over-stimulation. That's how you can focus on a conversation with someone in a crowded restaurant despite the conversations around you, the TV on the wall, the clanking silverware, et cetera. Eventually, as you adapt to your powers, you'll find it just as easy to filter out the psychic 'noise.' You just have to be patient and, more importantly, calm."

Despite her encouragement, Sam could sense how much she fancied smothering him with her depravity. As much as she wanted him to learn, she was in no rush. The longer it took him to block out her thoughts and feelings, the happier she'd be. That's why she deprived him of the crystals. Their function was to help him manage his untamed potential, but she preferred watching him flounder. It was unbearable, but what could he do? If he protested, someone in the laboratory would pay for it in blood.

After a day and a half on his best behavior, Sam treasured the time he spent alone with Cyrus. Presently, he sat curled up on the sofa in the downstairs living room, gripping his head in his hands. Compassion and concern emanated from his adoptive brother, which soothed his migraine, but not sufficiently to cheer him up. Recognizing the need for silence, Cyrus fixed his attention on his math book, and they enjoyed each other's quiet company.

But then Elizabeth appeared in the door. Sam had not seen her since the incident in the courtyard on Monday, and he didn't want to consider how her family punished her for challenging them—not that he could stop himself from sensing the aftershock. Somehow, Elizabeth had been abused. Brutalized. By her own father, for nearly two whole days. It felt like she had been skinned alive, and while she didn't seem to have a scratch on her, Sam knew from experience that William had a penchant for healing spells. Damn.

Trembling, Elizabeth shuffled into the room. "Sam?"

Having spent so much effort 'playing along,' he didn't bother hesitating. Instead, he clambered off the sofa and went to her aid, helping her reach a wingback chair where she could sit and rest. "Elizabeth," he whispered sadly. "I'm so sorry." He wouldn't wish this kind of pain on his worst enemy.

She caught his gaze, and realization filled her deep blue eyes. "Your powers?"

"I'm still trying to get a handle on them," he confessed. "So if there's anything you don't want me to know, or sense, or whatever, you need to block off your mind. Keep me out."

"That's easy enough," she assured him, frowning. "But don't you have a crystal?" When Sam shook his head, she scowled. "Of course not. God forbid they make life easy for you." She glanced around the room, disregarding Cyrus, and asked, "Where is everyone, anyway?"

Sam shrugged and made for the sofa, but Elizabeth grabbed his wrist and drew him back, like a frightened child clinging to her one source of protection. It would have been unnerving if it wasn't so pathetic. Sam found himself humoring her. "I'm not entirely sure. I think Caroline and William are with the Fontaines, making a seating chart for the reception. Jacob and the others… They've been sent on a mission in the real world."

As much as he appreciated their absence, Sam worried about their objective. Were they hunting his dad? Dean? Replacement hostages for the laboratory? So far, they had killed two and set one free—if they weren't deceiving him. Despite Caroline's insistence that his powers could detect lies, Sam was still a beginner, and for all he knew, he had simply envisioned the idea—the fictitious, imagined idea—of the prisoner's release. He couldn't guarantee it actually happened in real life. At this point, his captors had more influence over his perceptions than he did—the hypocritical bastards. They disclosed what they wanted, and concealed what they wanted, regardless of his curiosity—which explained how Jacob's assignment remained a secret.

"Good," Elizabeth said after a beat. "That means there's still a chance we can escape." Noticing Sam's perplexity, she elaborated. "Can't you sense it? My powers are gaining ground against my mother. I dispelled the protective warding around my bedroom, and made it all the way down here without hindrance. No one's guarding us. With the proper incantation, we can open the portal and return to the real world." She finally acknowledged Cyrus, who sat staring at her nervously. "You know what it is, don't you? You can help us leave. You can leave with us!"

"No!" Sam objected before Cyrus could respond. Startled, Elizabeth looked back at him, cocking her head. "I can't leave. They still have hostages in the laboratory."

"Sam—!"

"No!" he repeated, pulling his wrist from her grasp. "You're asking me to trade their lives for mine, and I can't do that. I can't. Even if I could…" He trailed off, shaking his head, which naturally caught her interest.

"What?"

"Nevermind."

"No, tell me!"

Sam averted his eyes, reluctant to incite a confrontation. Especially this one. He didn't want to think about his nightmares of Elizabeth stabbing Jessica. They were too painful, too frightening. Could that really be what the future had in store? Could he possibly avoid it? Was there any hope? "You said I've been having premonitions. If that's true, Elizabeth, then you're going to murder someone I care about—out of spite."

She blanched. "You mean down in the courtyard, in front of the statue?" He nodded. "Sam, the future's not absolute. We can write our own destinies. If we escape now, I won't ever be in the courtyard to murder anyone!"

"The thing is," Sam interrupted. "In the premonition, you emphasized your failure to escape. Even if the three of us all work together, we're not going to make it. We're just going to piss your family off. And then, you're going to betray me. After everything we've been through together, after everything my dad and Dean went through with Thomas, you're still going to betray me."

Tears filled Elizabeth's eyes. "I promise you, Sam, I won't betray you. I won't kill whoever it is you think I'm going to kill. You have my word! But we have to at least try getting out of here, or I'm going to be at Victor's mercy, and you have no idea what that's like for a woman!"

Sam flinched, sensing her authenticity. She was genuinely scared, not that he could blame her—Frankenstein was more of a monster than his undead servants. "The hostages…"

"There's nothing you can do for them."

"I can't just abandon them."

"So you're going to abandon me?"

Her question made Sam's stomach drop. He stared at her in disbelief. "Abandon you? Elizabeth, you're the one who brought my family to Monroe's attention. You're the reason I'm trapped here. You shot my brother! You triggered a massive pileup on a busy interstate, causing God knows how many deaths! What makes you think I have any obligation to protect you? I'm not abandoning you. I'm not responsible for you."

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she covered her mouth, thoroughly shocked.

"Sam!" Cyrus suddenly gasped, staring at the door in dread. Following his line of sight, Sam and Elizabeth discovered Caroline observing with crossed arms. She sighed, torn between disappointment in her daughter and approval for her adopted son.

"Good boy, Sam," she told him favorably before regarding Elizabeth with a sneer. "As for you, young lady, did you really think you dispelled the warding in your room? You arrogant little fool. I dropped our defenses to test you, to check your loyalty, and I have to say, at this rate, you'll never regain our trust."

"Mama!" Elizabeth shrieked as Caroline advanced on her, snatching her arm and yanking her to her feet. Sam backed away, grappling with mixed emotions. Fear. Disgust. Resent. Despair. "Mama, please!"

"That's enough!" Caroline admonished. "Now you have a dress to try on, and then you'll be answering to your father. I have a feeling he won't be pleased with your behavior."

As they stormed out of the living room, Sam sank to his knees, feeling more like a prisoner than he had in days.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	18. Taken

_**Warning:**_ _This chapter's a violent one. Proceed with caution._

 **SPN**

 **(Omaha, Nebraska** **… Wednesday, October 28, 2005)**

Halloween was fast approaching, and the lobby of the Meadowlark Hotel anticipated the holiday with candy, pumpkins, bat garlands, and the smell of cider. A local middle school had reserved the ballroom for a party on Saturday, and a dozen pre-teens were running around, taking command of the decorations. They were loud, rambunctious, and carefree; Jessica envied them.

Presently, she sat in the bar, nursing a beer while flipping through a book Ellen loaned her on the do's and don'ts of hunting vengeful spirits. She was still leery of the subject—how could ghosts be real!? But at the same time, it was nearly a week since Sam's abduction, and as the initial shock wore off, she entered a funk where monsters and demons seemed preferable to violent, sadistic criminals. At least _they_ had an excuse for their cruelty.

Nearly a week. In that time, Jessica had cried herself to sleep every night, wondering what the Stynes were doing to her boyfriend. Ellen assured her they didn't want to kill Sam, but that was almost worse. Jessica kept flashing back to her own captivity, as brief as it had been, back in California last year.

Dumped in the trunk of a car, she had been taken to a mansion and left tied up in a bathtub. Freddie Styne expressed his admiration and began kissing her. God knows where that would have led if his buddy Earl hadn't been in agonizing pain—apparently they used a concealment spell to sneak up on their prey, which somehow mutilated Earl's arm. He begged Freddie to harvest him a replacement, and Freddie agreed. Left alone, Jessica took the opportunity to escape. Overall, her ordeal lasted only a few short hours. She couldn't begin to imagine a week of imprisonment.

So now she waited in the FBI's protective custody for some kind of break in the case. Until they arrested every last Styne, her life was on hold. No school. No contact with her parents. No future. Nothing but tight security, an admittedly nice hotel, and Ellen's supervision. Every once in awhile, Jessica needed space from the overprotective woman. They had spent a year together and were now as close as family, but realistically, what family enjoyed being cooped up in tight quarters for extended lengths of time?

Consequently, Jessica took refuge in the bar while Ellen made her rounds. Special Agent Joel Paulson was an expert sentinel, but when it came to the supernatural, he welcomed Ellen's expertise. His partner, Brian Hale, was slightly more contentious, mostly because he resented his post—he would rather be in the field with Henriksen—but he still paid attention and took Ellen's advice.

As the three of them went on patrol, they left Special Agent Connor Burckle behind to babysit Jessica. She liked Connor. He was a friendly, laid-back guy in his early forties with an obvious crush on Ellen, and Jessica's safety became much more of a priority to him because it was a priority to her. Still, he gave the girl room to breathe and watched from a distance, which Jessica appreciated.

Honestly, how long was this going to last? It had been six days! If the Stynes hadn't come for her by now, would they ever? Maybe she wasn't as important to them as Dean thought. Or maybe they were biding their time, waiting for her to drop her guard. It was impossible to say, and the uncertainty more than anything else disheartened her. She just wanted her freedom back. The freedom to walk outside, to go to the beach, to kiss her boyfriend.

Sam… She missed him more than words could express. Would she ever see him again? Where was he?

Something from the corner of her eye caught her attention. Some kind of flickering movement. Looking up from her book, she noticed a woman watching her from the other end of the bar. Pale, thin, blonde, she wore a professional red dress and had a knowing look on her face. She seemed familiar. Jessica definitely recognized her, but from where?

Frowning, she glanced at Connor, who normally noticed strangers long before she did. What might he think of the mysterious woman? But Connor was making a show of watching old coverage of an old football game, not wanting his surveillance to worry anyone. When he sensed Jessica's unease, he returned her gaze. She nodded at the woman, who stood frozen in place, but when Connor glanced in her direction, he furrowed his brow—not in alarm, but bewilderment. Did he not see her?

Returning his gaze to Jessica, he mouthed, "What?"

Weird. Jessica shifted uncomfortably in her seat and, because she was reading about them, wondered if the woman was a ghost. No… Why would a ghost turn up now? Here? And why would she reveal herself to Jessica?

Realization struck her in the gut. _That_ _'s_ where she had seen the woman before! In a photograph at Sam's apartment in California. Her name was Mary Winchester. She was Sam's mother. Sam's dead mother. What the hell?

Catching her breath, Jessica closed her book and dashed out of the bar. As she went, she watched the apparition fade away like a mirage. Damn. Was she hallucinating?

Connor followed on her heels as she scrambled up four flights of stairs—screw elevators—and down a long corridor to her luxury suite. Once inside, she found the salt Ellen left in the kitchenette and made a line at the foot of the door. Proceeding to the windows, she heard Connor on the phone with Paulson. Good.

Minutes later, the senior agent, Hale, and Ellen flooded the room, ready for anything. When Jessica saw them, she frantically exclaimed, "It was Mary Winchester! I saw her, Ellen! I swear to God!"

"Mary Winchester?" Ellen looked confused. "Here?"

Jessica nodded and all eyes turned to Connor. He shook his head. "I didn't see anyone who even loosely resembles Mary Winchester."

"That's why I salted all the entrances!"

"How much alcohol have you had?" Hale demanded, making Jessica flush. Paulson and Connor both glowered at him.

"Sweetie," Ellen said, crossing over to her and ushering her to the couch. They sat down, and only then did Jessica realize how badly she was shaking. "You couldn't have seen Mary Winchester. She died in Lawrence, Kansas, and I think it's safe to assume there's nothing linking her spirit to a hotel in Omaha, Nebraska. Ghosts don't take road trips. It doesn't work that way."

"I know what I saw!" Jessica insisted. "You have to believe me!"

Ellen glanced dubiously at the book in her arms. Jessica wasn't sleeping well, she was exhausted by fear, not to mention preoccupied with a recent change in her world view, and yes, she had been drinking. Maybe her imagination was playing tricks on her.

"Please, Ellen," Jessica begged. "It was Mary Winchester."

"I highly doubt it," Ellen replied. "But whatever it was, it could have something to do with the Stynes." She turned to Paulson. "How soon can we relocate? I don't think Jess is safe here anymore."

Paulson nodded. "Ten minutes."

 **SPN**

From the shelter of his BMW, Jacob studied the Meadowlark Hotel. It was a lovely, historic building with Edwardian architecture. Small, compared to the Styne safe house, but impressive all the same. It would make a memorable hunting ground, and since killing Special Agent Calvin Reidy, Jacob was eager to hunt. Especially the girl.

Thanks to the late fed's dying confession, Jessica was easy to find, and Jacob couldn't wait to get his hands on her. Not for the same reason as Freddie. He couldn't care less about her smell, her touch, her taste. His thoughts were on Sam. Every time he forced the boy to watch a harvest, they shared a moment. Like Aunt Caroline said, it strengthened their bond. But those lab rats were strangers to Sam. They meant nothing to him.

So, how much better would it be if Jacob made him watch the death of someone he loved? Someone like Jessica? Talk about bliss—especially after the reception, after Sam killed to protect her. Jacob could already picture the horror on his face, and damn, was it exhilarating.

When his phone rang, he answered promptly. "Yeah?"

"It appears Agent Reidy spoke the truth," Aunt Caroline whispered wearily from the other end. Astral projection—especially over such a distance—obviously took its toll. "Jessica's inside. However, she appears skittish. You had best hurry, before she flies the coop."

"Yes ma'am," he said, ending the call. Next, he dialed Victor. "We have confirmation. Release the dogs."

His father would be outraged by this brazen enterprise, but what the hell? The damn feds had found their safe house! No point being secretive anymore. They had to teach those vermin a lesson, and put them in their place. More importantly, they had to get the girl.

 **SPN**

Ten minutes later, Jessica, Ellen, Paulson, Hale and Connor descended a side staircase with their emergency go-bags. Jessica was grateful for their responsiveness. Better to be safe than sorry. Paulson had arranged for transport to Seattle. Jessica had no connections there—neither did the Winchesters—and it was far from Atlanta.

Reaching the ground floor, they made for a side exit, only to find their path blocked by a tall, burly man in a zombie costume. A remarkable zombie costume. His jeans and muscle shirt were tattered. His ashen skin was peeling from his face, exposing red tissue. His eyes were blank, his hair matted and disgusting. He smelled like rotting flesh.

"Oh my God," Ellen said, and Jessica realized it wasn't a costume. Nor did it have anything to do with Halloween.

Paulson pulled his gun, but wasn't fast enough. The zombie launched at him, and before Jessica could blink, snapped his neck. She screamed, stumbling backwards.

Hale had also pulled his gun, and he fired multiple rounds, making Jessica's ears ring. The impact of the barrage knocked the zombie against the wall, but other than that, did very little damage. The thing turned to glare angrily at its assailant.

"Run!" Ellen yelled, grabbing Jessica's arm and yanking her down the corridor. They sprinted towards the lobby with Connor close behind them while Hale provided cover. It occurred to Jessica she might never see him again. Tears welled in her eyes.

As they approached the lobby, sounds of chaos greeted them. Frantic screams. Breaking furniture. More gunfire. Three additional zombies were terrorizing both the guests and the staff. One had a girl around Jessica's age, with blonde hair, by the neck. It wasn't trying to hurt her; it was merely holding her, preventing her from running.

"They're blocking the exits," Ellen said. "Trapping us inside."

"What do they want?" Jessica asked, though she already knew the answer.

"You," Connor replied. "Come on. We need to get you to the roof." Jessica knew he had acquired a special key card that would open any door in the hotel. Unless these zombies were inordinately strong, they could safely lock themselves up top and call for a rescue chopper. It might not help anyone else, but given the circumstances, Connor had to stay on target. His only mission was to protect Jessica.

Unfortunately, they were spotted rushing to the main staircase. While two zombies remained guarding the door, one gleefully pursued.

"Damn," Connor grumbled. He drew his gun and passed the key card to Ellen. "Keep going! Don't look back!" Their gazes met, and they shared a split second of mutual regret. Then Connor turned, aiming his weapon at the oncoming zombie. Ellen pushed Jessica up the stairs, and they took off as fast as their legs could carry them.

Connor's gun discharged three times before it stopped. He certainly had more than three bullets. He wouldn't stop shooting unless… unless…

"Ellen!" Jessica cried.

"Don't stop!" Ellen urged her to climb faster. Up, and up, and up. Despite plenty of exercise and a burst of adrenaline, Jessica was soon sweating and running out of endurance. She didn't know if she could make it, but Ellen refused to let her lag behind. They were almost to the roof when a dark figure appeared above them. Stopping short, they found themselves cut off by Earl Styne. The last time Jessica had seen him, she smashed his head with the lid to a toilet tank in order to escape. She wasn't sure if the attack had killed him. Clearly, he recovered.

Now, he smiled down at her in anticipation. "This must be my lucky day."

Without a word, Jessica and Ellen turned on their heels. They scrambled down the stairs as quickly as they could, and Earl seemed content to let them run. After all, where could they go? Not back to the lobby. They were sitting ducks, right where the Stynes wanted them!

"What do we do now?" Jessica asked as they left the stairs on the third floor. They sprinted through the corridor, trying to put as much distance between themselves and Earl as possible. A few brave guests peered outside their rooms, and Ellen warned them to stay inside. The Stynes didn't care about them. As long as they kept their heads down, hopefully they'd survive.

"Ellen?" Jessica tried again as they rounded a corner, where they abruptly came face-to-face with none other than Freddie Styne. The sight of him licking his lips made Jessica's heart stop. No, no, no, no, no! Anyone but him!

With frightening speed, the son of a bitch grabbed Ellen by the back of the neck and slammed her head against the wall, instantly knocking her out. If not killing her.

Panicking, Jessica turned to flee, but didn't make it more than a few feet before Freddie's fingers snagged her hair. He twisted her long locks around his fist and pulled, yanking her head back and making her scream. With his other hand, he clamped down on her mouth. "Hello again," he said, releasing her hair in favor of her breast. He squeezed, laughing at her muffled protests. "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes?"

He manhandled her a few steps forward, then removed his hand from her mouth.

"Don't touch me!" she shrieked, attempting to dislodge him. She had trained for months with Jo at the Roadhouse, preparing for such an encounter, but it made no difference. Freddie's strength was overwhelming, and he barely seemed to register her resistance. A moment later, he fished a rag from his pocket and roughly shoved it through her lips. It filled her mouth, compressing her tongue and padding her teeth. She would have to concentrate to spit it out, and right now, she couldn't concentrate on anything but Freddie's tongue in her ear.

"I'm going to eat you up," he teased, forcing her arms behind her back. She winced as he wrapped a length of rope around her wrists. "I'm going to rock your world." After tying a secure knot, he pushed her to the floor and fell on top of her; his weight was crushing, and Jessica grunted.

"How 'bout a quickie?" he asked, pressing his mouth against the side of her neck. He sucked like a fangless vampire, and his clammy hands explored her body. Jessica tried not to sob as they slid under her shirt.

"HEY!"

Freddie glanced up in time to see Brian Hale—still alive—covered in gore and wielding a fire axe. Without hesitating, the agent swung, lodging the blade in Freddie's throat. Blood splattered everywhere, and thankfully the impact knocked the bastard off the girl. He fell against the wall, dead before he knew what happened.

"NO!"

Earl had caught up to them, and he watched his comrade's murder in wide-eyed disbelief. Hale turned to face him, but wasn't given time to react. Earl pulled a gun and shot him in the leg. He gasped, hitting the ground hard. Jessica crawled backwards, heart hammering, as Earl towered over him. "You're going to pay for that!" Hale's face whitened.

"Jessica, run!"

Earl aimed the weapon at his other leg, and when he pulled the trigger, Hale screamed.

There was nothing Jessica could do; her hands were literally tied. Scrambling to her feet, she ran for her life.

This couldn't be real. Zombies weren't real! This couldn't be happening!

But it was.

Terrified, Jessica reached the stairs and made her way down. How the hell was she going to get out of here?

She wasn't.

As she landed on the ground floor, Jacob suddenly appeared in front of her. He smirked, looking her up and down in obvious approval. "Now where do you think you're going?"

Shaking her head, Jessica turned back around, only to spot Earl on the stairs above her. She whimpered, recognizing defeat, and closed her eyes. A powerful hand clutched her upper arm.

Jacob pulled a phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial. "Victor? We have the girl. Give us five minutes to withdraw, then signal the dogs to self-destruct." He regarded Earl. "Where's Freddie?"

"Dead."

Jacob sighed in irritation. "All right. Fill me in later. It's time to go." Together, they marched Jessica away from the stairs, through a long corridor, and out a back door—ignoring the zombie that stood guard. In the parking lot, they swiftly made their way to a stylish BMW. Jacob opened the trunk and Earl removed an enormous tarp. Jessica wavered as he spread it out on the ground. Not again!

But sure enough, the two men wrestled her on top of it. The next thing she knew, they were packaging her up inside it. She shrieked, kicking her legs and bucking frantically.

Jacob laughed. "Let me guess. Her feistiness provoked Freddie to cop a feel, and he got distracted? Dropped his guard?"

Earl grunted. "Just in time for a fed to catch up and kill him."

"Figures."

Jessica felt them lifting her up and stuffing her in the trunk. It was a tight fit, and being cocooned in a tarp, she could barely move, barely breathe.

"Take it easy, love," Jacob told her. "You've got a long road ahead of you." And with that, he slammed the lid to the trunk. Lost in the darkness, Jessica finally broke down.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	19. The Gift

_**Author's Note:**_ _So, this fic is starting to get pretty long, and I hope it doesn't feel like it's dragging. One of my goals was to emphasize the length of Sam's captivity, and a week can feel like an eternity. Poor guy. I'm still having fun writing it, and I hope you're having fun reading it! :-)_

 **SPN**

 **(Thursday, October 29, 2005)**

The drive from Omaha to Atlanta was about fifteen hours, give or take, and Jacob spent much of his time flipping from one radio station to another. The attack on the Meadowlark Hotel had made national news, and reports varied from Halloween pranks to terrorist attacks to outbreaks of some new disease to the zombie apocalypse. No one knew what to make of the violent criminals responsible for eight deaths and twenty-four injuries. They appeared to be corpses that sprang to life for a brief ransack before dropping dead again without explanation. But how was that possible? Jacob smirked at the ignorance of the masses.

Of course, the FBI would figure it out. Three of their agents were now dead—four counting Reidy—and their pretty young asset was missing. They would naturally suspect the Stynes, but Jacob doubted they would share that information with the press. He idly wondered how Henriksen would take the news. Probably not well, but honestly, Jacob didn't care.

Freddie was also dead, and for what? Business always came first, pleasure second, and if he had just waited another few hours, he could have spent the whole damn night with the girl! How stupid could a man be? And yet, he was still Jacob's cousin, he was still family, and the loss weighed heavily on Jacob's mind.

Even though Stynes were taught from an early age to consider themselves expendable for the greater good, he was still reeling from his father's death, and from Eldon's death. So much blood had been spilt. Jacob thought his lengthy incarceration had given him time to heal, but the truth was, he still had an aching hole inside his chest, and he was desperate to fill it with something. Anything. Perhaps that explained his growing obsession with Sam. The boy gave him a sense of purpose and, more importantly, dominance, which he so deeply craved. Nothing compared to absolute control over another person, and it definitely numbed the pain.

Without Freddie's hankering to play with the girl, Jacob, Earl and Victor had no reason to prolong their journey home. Thanks to their enhancements, they had both the metabolism and endurance to last days without food or sleep. And since Victor had ferried his creatures to Nebraska in his limousine while the others took BMWs, they weren't cooped up in a single vehicle, so they weren't getting on each other's nerves, and didn't need to stop for breathing space. Good thing, too. There was always the danger of Jessica drawing unwanted attention.

Ahh, Jessica. Fifteen hours wrapped up in a tarp, nice and snug, while bound and gagged, had to be uncomfortable, especially in a cramped trunk. When they finally dug her out, she would be stiff, sore, and nausous. Jacob found comfort in the thought. Freddie might be gone, but she was still suffering, and her presence would sweeten the taste of Sam's misery. Overall, it was worth the cost.

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… T** **hursday, October 29, 2005)**

As they approached their prestigious neighborhood, Jacob called his aunt while keeping an eye out for suspicious sedans. Henriksen would not give up his case so easily, especially if he was the kind of fed who took a partner's death personally. He might need some time to regroup, but he would definitely be back.

Caroline answered on the second ring. "Yes?"

"We're just about home," Jacob reported. "Is everything ready?" They wanted to wait for the proper moment to surprise Sam with their new guest, so they had to ensure he was out of the way when they arrived.

"I'll tell William to escort the boy to the groom's dressing room so he can try on his wedding attire," she said. "But just to be safe, come in the back. I'll meet you there."

"Yes ma'am."

After ending the call, Jacob turned onto West Paces Ferry Road, then Monarch Avenue. No sign of Henriksen. He was probably on the phone with his supervisor, trying to explain the attack at the hotel. Poor bastard. Jacob grinned.

When he reached the family's address, he whispered the incantation to open the portal. It was blood magic, which meant any of the Stynes could access the safe house as long as they knew the correct words. Elizabeth did not. Since her betrayal, they decided to "change the locks."

In quick succession, Jacob, Earl, and Victor cleared the portal and entered the space between realities. It felt like passing through a curtain of water, without the inconvenience of getting wet. Once inside, they proceeded up the driveway, and while Earl and Victor approached the luxury garage where they stored their favorite vehicles—it was the size of a stable!—Jacob circled around to the far side of the château. It required him to drive on the grass, but that wasn't a problem. In the space between realities, the typical laws of nature could be adjusted, so landscaping was easy.

Parking the BMW, Jacob climbed out and ambled to the quiet trunk—by now, Jessica would be too exhausted to keep fighting. He opened the lid and dug through the tarp until he found her tear-stained face. She recoiled at the sudden burst of light, and even though she had managed to spit out her gag, she only whimpered. It was a lovely sound, and Jacob reached out to caress her neck, hoping to encourage more—which he did.

"How was the ride?" he asked, tugging on the collar of her shirt so it dropped over her shoulder. He might not share Freddie's interest in her, but she was still fun to tease, and besides, what better way to honor his cousin's memory? Chuckling, he pulled on her bra strap and sent it snapping down on her skin. Her whimpers turned into sobs. "I hope you like it here, doll. You're never going to leave."

"Please," she begged through her tears. "Don't hurt me."

"What makes you think we want to hurt you?" Jacob asked. He promptly hauled her out of the trunk and dropped her on the ground—she was too stiff and shaky to find her balance. Then, he dug around for the discarded rag. "Now," he said. "We can't have you screaming. Granted, there's no one here to save you, but for the moment, we need you to remain our little secret. I hope you understand."

She shook her head, attempting to crawl away. "I promise I won't scream!"

"And why should I believe you?" Jacob sat next to her and shoved the rag deep in her mouth, so she nearly choked. Then, he pulled a bandana from his pocket and tied it around her head, sealing the rag in place. "No way you're spitting that out." Satisfied, he picked her up and carried her over his shoulder, whistling a jazzy tune.

Caroline met him on the back patio, looking well rested and amicable. "There she is! Set her down, Jacob. I want to see!"

He obeyed, and the moment Jessica laid eyes on Caroline, she squealed, no doubt recognizing the woman from the hotel. Jacob had to wrap his arm around her waist to hold her steady while Caroline snatched her chin.

"So you're Sammy's girlfriend?" She carefully examined Jessica's face. "Very nice. I can already picture you as Lilibet's maid of honor." She glanced down at Jessica's jeans. "But that's unacceptable. My god. What is it with this generation? Girls do not belong in pants!" She met Jacob's gaze. "Follow me. I think we have some spare dresses up in the tower."

Jacob smiled at the sound of Jessica's frantic, muffled cries.

 **SPN**

After leaving the girl in Caroline's capable hands, Jacob went in search of his little brother. The groom's dressing room was at the front of the house, on the second floor. It wasn't hard to find, and as he reached the closed door, he made it a point to block his thoughts. Just because Sam had yet to master the art of mind reading didn't mean Jacob could take any chances. They wanted to surprise him at dinner; not now.

As a courtesy, Jacob rapped on the door before entering. Inside, Sam stood next to a floor-length mirror, dressed in a tailored three-piece suit, with William inspecting him from every angle. Unsurprisingly, Sam flinched at the sight of Jacob's reflection, his timid expression twisting in fear. William, however, barely seemed to notice, and according to custom, Jacob waited for his elder's acknowledgment. Still, he couldn't resist winking at the boy.

Eventually, William nodded. "That should do. How do you feel, son? Is it comfortable?"

Sam hesitated, his gaze darting from William to Jacob and back again. "Yes sir. It fits perfectly." His voice was far more diffident than Jacob remembered. Damn. He had been away from home too long! Caroline had put Sam in his place with her promise to free the lab rats, and Jacob missed so much of it. He sighed.

"Excellent," William said. He grinned and glanced at his nephew. "Ah! Jacob. Welcome back."

"It's good to be home." Jacob smirked at his little brother. "Miss me, Sam?"

As much as it pained him, he somehow managed to whisper, "Of course I did."

"Of course you did." Sauntering forward, Jacob eyed him up and down, almost suggestively. "You look great. The ladies are bound to love you. Much more than Victor, I'd imagine."

Sam didn't reply, but he must have sensed Jacob's excitement—he grimaced and rubbed the side of his head.

William feigned concern. "Caroline's been working him too hard if you ask me. He's obviously over-stimulated, and if she doesn't give him a crystal to temper his abilities, the wedding crowd might engulf him on Sunday night. Remind me to mention that to her."

"Yes sir," Jacob said. Especially since they needed Sam on top of his game for the reception. "How do you like your powers anyway, little brother? We haven't had time to talk about them, have we?"

He caught Sam's gaze and savored his reluctance. After a beat, he said, "It's been difficult to adjust, but mom says I'm making a lot of progress, which is good, I guess."

Jacob started at the word 'mom' and glanced at William in surprise. They had come a long way in just a week. Of course Sam was only telling them what they wanted to hear, but it was definitely a step in the right direction. It wouldn't be long at all until they brainwashed him. "I'm proud of you, kid. I hope you believe that."

Averting his eyes, Sam bit his lip and shivered.

 **SPN**

Dinner could not come fast enough. After returning Sam to his bedroom where he was told to rest and recover from all his training, Jacob ventured into the laboratory. He needed to blow off some steam, and what better way than by torturing someone? Technically, murder was a form of release, and as long as he controlled his thoughts, Sam would never know the difference.

Apparently, Freddie's death had also vexed Earl and Victor—they were already in the lab for the same reason when Jacob arrived. Out of the nine original prisoners, two men and two women were already gone—harvested. This time, however, they weren't concerned with spare parts. They were concerned with compensation—someone had to pay for their cousin's demise. Consequently, they strapped a scrawny nineteen-year-old boy to the table. He was much too pathetic physically to be of any value, which made him an ideal candidate for their current, sadistic needs.

Upon quenching his thirst for blood, Jacob showered and joined Arthur Fontaine in the billiard room for a couple of games. Impressively, the lawyer held his own, but in the end, Jacob remained undefeated. He idly wondered if Sam played. It might be fun to challenge the boy. Or maybe they could team up and humiliate Earl and Victor.

At long last, they finally gathered in the dining room. First Jacob and Arthur. Then William and Sam, with Paige and Cyrus on their heels. Victor brought in a demoralized Elizabeth, and Earl followed. The poor man could not hide his sorrow—Freddie had been his best friend in the world.

As usual, they began the evening with small talk near the mantel where a fire crackled pleasantly, and despite seeming more comfortable in his casual slacks and sweater, Sam still stiffened whenever Jacob addressed him.

"What do you know about eight-ball pool, little brother?"

Sam's noncommittal shrug belied his apprehension, but he was still too easy to read. "It's not really my thing," he said, probably lying—if only to discourage new bonding opportunities. "Dean enjoys it, though."

Jacob bristled at the remark, but quickly used it to his advantage. "I bet Dean would lord it over you. Why don't we practice tomorrow? I'll teach you all my tricks—like a _good_ brother."

Sam flushed angrily, but managed to check himself. "Thank you. I'd like that." Jacob and William nodded their approval while Cyrus made an odd face—some weird combination of sympathy and resent. What the hell did a seven-year-old child have to be resentful of?

"I wonder what's keeping Caroline," Paige mused impatiently, apparently fed up with Elizabeth's poor company.

"Now that you mention it," Jacob said eagerly, focusing back on Sam. "While we were out, we happened to pick up a small gift for you. Aunt Caroline had to make a few refinements, but they shouldn't be much longer now."

Sam paled at the operative word. "They?"

As if on cue, Caroline led Jessica by the arm through the enormous threshold into the dining room. While the family matriarch still sported a professional business dress with three-inch heels for added height, the girl had been changed into a cute pink dress with white polka dots. It barely reached her knees, and with the halter neckline, it exposed plenty of skin. Her gag had been resecured beneath her golden hair, which spilled in perfect ringlets over her shoulders with a gardenia pinned behind her ear. Her wrists were still bound behind her back, and like Sam and Elizabeth, she wore nothing on her feet. Altogether, it made her look girly and precious.

Meanwhile, Sam looked like a deer in the headlights. When he and Jessica caught sight of each other, they momentarily froze—Jacob could practically smell their fear. Then, Caroline jerked Jessica forward while Sam inadvertently glanced at Elizabeth, who was watching in renewed fascination.

"I apologize for our tardiness," Caroline said without remorse. "Little Miss Jessica and I were having a delight getting to know each other, and I lost track of the time." Judging by the girl's tears, Caroline's sentiments were a bit one-sided.

Sam clenched his fists and abruptly closed his eyes—not exactly the reaction Jacob expected, but when he noticed his aunt's blatant admiration, he realized his brother had actively engaged his telepathy. He wasn't trying to communicate with Jessica—at least, she gave no indication of hearing thoughts inside her head. Rather, he was in all probability trying to assess her condition. Had she been hurt? Molested? Or simply threatened?

"Come now, Sammy," Caroline chided, not without humor. "Do you really think we'd mistreat the girl? She's your date for the wedding! Not to mention Lilibet's maid of honor. We can't have her looking battered and bruised, now can we?"

Between his charged emotions and the strain of his powers, Sam swayed precariously. Jacob had to grab his arm to support him. "Take it easy, little brother. Everything's gonna be just fine. Nothing to worry about."

"Let her go," Sam said under his breath.

"What was that?" Caroline asked sharply with a hint of malice. They couldn't blame Sam for being upset, but if he verbalized his opposition, they'd skip dessert and march straight to the laboratory. The kid knew it, too.

"What more do you want from me?" he asked in return, his voice thick with desperation.

"Oh sweetie," Caroline teased. "She's a gift! In our family, gifts don't come with stipulations. All we want is for you to be happy." A disgruntled sound escaped through the girl's gag, earning her a scowl from her chaperone. "And that, my dear, is why you still need to keep your mouth shut."

"Wouldn't it make more sense for Paige to be my matron of honor?" Elizabeth cut in. "After all, she and I actually know each other, and I have to say, killing a member of my entourage might prove awkward." Sam blanched while everyone else frowned in perplexity. "That's right," Elizabeth asserted. "According to Sam's premonition, I have the pleasure of killing someone he loves out in the courtyard. And now that _she's_ here, I can only assume he meant her."

Jacob did not care for the underlying bitterness in her voice. Contempt, resent, disgust—those were all marks of anger and hatred, which he could respect, but bitterness implied disappointment, and disappointment implied defeat. And as much as Elizabeth deserved some defeat, she was still like a sister to him, and he still struggled with mixed emotions over her predicament.

"What did I miss?" he asked in frustration. "I mean, last I checked, you were determined to get on Sammy's good side. Now you're trying to punish him. What for? What happened?"

"Lilibet thought she could escape yesterday," Caroline absently relayed, her attention fixed on Sam's horrified demeanor. "And our son here knew better than to help." More curious than concerned, she asked the boy, "Did you, in fact, foresee your sister killing Jessica?"

Sam's poker face left much to be desired, and he stared at his feet. "What difference does it make?"

"It makes a hell of a difference," Caroline said. "Because I have no intention of letting Lilibet kill anyone—much less your little girlfriend—so if that's what you saw, then I must consider the possibility that Lilibet will soon find the strength to resist my influence, unlikely as that sounds. In which case, Sammy dear, if you want to protect Jessica, then keeping Lilibet in line should be a priority now, don't you agree?"

Sam flinched, but nodded despite himself. "Yes ma'am."

Elizabeth groaned, which tickled Victor.

"Well, what did you expect?" he taunted. "You should know better than to show your hand. Of course, that's what you get for spurning Monroe's guidance, you foolish little bitch."

"Go to hell," she retorted.

He slapped her with enough force to knock her to the ground. "Oh trust me," he said gravely. "We'll go together."

Jacob sighed. If they weren't careful, all this drama would spoil the evening. "Are you done?" he demanded. "We're neglecting our guest of honor!" Elizabeth sat up, but didn't brush the stray hair from her face, while everyone else homed in on Jessica.

For her part, Jessica watched in open revulsion, no doubt writing the family off as criminally insane. Jacob didn't mind. After all, her opinion hardly mattered to anyone.

"I do believe introductions are in order," Caroline graciously allowed. "Come! I prepared our seating arrangements to accommodate our new arrival. Let me show you." She steered Jessica over to the head of the table and forced her to take the prominent position. She then gave William the first place on the right, and reserved for herself the first place on the left. Next to William came Arthur, then Victor, then Sam, then Cyrus. Next to Caroline came Paige, then Elizabeth, then Jacob, then Earl.

"I put a lot of thought into this," Caroline explained as they all settled in their seats. "True, we fetched dear little Jessica specifically for Sam, but he's not the only one who admires her. They'll have plenty of opportunities to sit together. For tonight, wouldn't it be nice to enjoy her presence as a family?"

Seated across from Sam, Jacob had an excellent view of his despondency. Perhaps he wasn't as surprised as Jacob hoped—if he'd been dreaming about Jessica, he had to know she'd turn up sooner or later—but he still wore his heart on his sleeve, and Jacob relished both his fear and his pain. One good push, and his defenses might finally crumble.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _What do you think!? Will Jessica make it out alive? Please Review!_


	20. Friendly Competition

_**Author's Note:**_ _I realize we haven't heard from Dean in awhile. Don't worry. I'm not forgetting about him—and especially not in favor of Jessica. He'll be back. I promise!_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… T** **hursday, October 29, 2005)**

Jessica still remembered the day Brady introduced her to Sam back in California. It was during spring break of their sophomore year. Hundreds of students flocked to the beach, and they were on the boardwalk enjoying the sunset with their beers in hand. Jessica had ditched her circle of friends to lean against the railing and gaze out at the water. She knew once classes resumed, she'd be hard-pressed to find moments like that. Moments of carefree peacefulness.

Brady had dragged Sam along with a different crowd, but when he happened to spot Jessica standing there, he felt compelled to say hi. They were in the same math class, and the same study group, so they were pleased to see each other. However, as soon as she observed Brady's tall friend, Jessica found herself at a loss for words.

Sam did not look like he belonged at the beach. For one thing, he wore jeans and tennis shoes rather than shorts and flip-flops, he wasn't half-drunk, and while he didn't seem bored per se, he wasn't having the time of his life either. In fact, Jessica later learned the only reason he came with Brady was to keep an eye out for him—apparently he was going through a rough patch, and needed a friend to hold him accountable.

Maybe it was the environment, maybe it was the beer, but Jessica could not take her eyes off Sam. He was the most attractive guy she had seen in ages, and to top it off, he was friendly and polite. He had a gorgeous smile. Brady must have noticed her checking Sam out, because he instantly took it upon himself to set them up, and the rest was history.

Sam was smart, gentle, funny, kind. He obviously had a past—whenever anyone brought up his family, he grew visibly uncomfortable. He showed Jessica a few pictures, and shared some basic details—his mother had died when he was a baby, and he and his brother had been raised on the road—but it was a painful subject, and he wasn't ready to confide in her. That was okay. They took their relationship slowly, and since neither of them went home for the summer, they had even more time for their infatuation to grow.

But that was then.

Jessica had not seen Sam in thirteen months, thanks to the Stynes. For their own safety, they had been torn apart—little good it did either of them. And now, the sweet, hopeful young man she fell in love with sat four seats away, looking miserable and broken. While the Stynes kept him clean and relatively intact, they were messing with his head, calling him "son" and "little brother." And to make things worse, Sam wasn't just putting up with it, he was actually playing along! Was it because Caroline resembled his mother? Or did they have some other means of coercion?

From her place at the head of the dinner table, Jessica watched Sam as everyone else began to eat—the old man sitting next to her, William, had summoned a few tuxedoed zombies to serve their meals. Undead waiters? Had her life really come to this? Of course, with her hands tied behind her back and a gag filling her mouth, Jessica felt more like a decoration than a member of the party. At least she wasn't hungry, and given her nightmarish situation, she didn't see her appetite returning anytime soon.

Sam wasn't eating either. He just sat there, silent and still, staring at his plate. Occasionally he would peek over at Jessica, and even from a distance, she recognized the turmoil in his eyes. Not to mention the defeat. How could anyone do this to him? It wasn't fair, and he didn't deserve it.

After awhile, Jacob interrupted Caroline's speech about wedding vows to address Sam sternly. "What did I tell you about starving yourself, little brother?"

Sam tensed, but immediately grabbed his fork and took a bite of his salad.

Noticing how the Stynes watched him like perverts, Jessica couldn't help but shake her head and tug on her restraints. She and Sam were both in danger, yes, but since Agent Hale had killed Freddie, the greatest threat was to Sam. If they were going to get out of this alive, it might all be up to her.

 **SPN**

When dinner came to a close, Caroline dismissed the family and their guests. The Fontaines took Cyrus to bed. Jacob and Earl took Sam. William and Victor took Elizabeth. That left the matriarch with Jessica. Impudent girl. Not only did she arrive wearing jeans—making her as trampy as Elizabeth—she was also a sniveling mess. At some point during the course of the evening, her terrified expression hardened into hatred, but she remained a pathetic damsel in distress. What could Sam possibly see in her?

No matter. She would only be around for three more days. Four at the most. After the reception, regardless of Sam's cooperation, they would kill her. Slowly. Caroline could deal with her until then.

"Let's go," she said, yanking Jessica up from her seat.

"Mmpphh!" The girl tried shaking free, but Caroline was much stronger.

"Shut up!" Digging her nails into Jessica's arm—enough to sting without drawing blood—Caroline led the way out of the dining room. Naturally, they had prepared fancy quarters for their new guest, but that was before Caroline actually met her. Now, she thought they were too good for the little slut. So instead of escorting her upstairs, Caroline took her to the basement—a dungeon to rival any in Europe.

With a flick of her wrist, Caroline produced an orb of light, and Jessica did a double-take at the display of magic. She wasn't even familiar with the supernatural! What made her think she was good enough for Sam?

They passed through the torture chamber to reach a row of barred cells in the back. Caroline picked one at random and telekinetically opened the door.

"MMPPPHH!" Jessica protested forcefully, but couldn't stop Caroline from dragging her inside, where the only furniture was a warped bench. Shoving her on top of it, Caroline found the two-foot chain that was anchored to the stone floor.

"I know it's not comfortable," she said, snatching the girl's foot and fettering her ankle. "But frankly, I don't care." Satisfied, she stood up and sneered. Jessica met her gaze defiantly, wrenching her arms behind her back. Caroline laughed at the futility of her struggle. "Go ahead. You can squirm all you like, but you're not going anywhere, and when we're done with you, you'll wish Freddie was alive to spare you from our wrath."

That said, she withdrew from the cell and locked the door. Turning, she left Jessica alone in the dark.

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… Fri** **day, October 30, 2005)**

When morning came, Sam was exhausted, having been unable to fall asleep. His eyelids were heavy, but his thoughts were racing, and he spent most of the night worried about Jessica. And Ellen, Jo, and Ash—were they even still alive? He wondered about Dean. If the Stynes could get to his girlfriend, could they get to his brother? Where was his dad? Where was Bobby?

He kept picturing the scene from his old nightmares—Elizabeth in a wedding gown, stabbing Jessica with a knife. That either meant late Sunday or early Monday, depending on the hour. He was running out of time. According to Caroline, the surest way of protecting Jessica was by keeping Elizabeth under control. But there was another option, which he first considered after discerning Freddie's fate. What if he killed Elizabeth before she killed Jessica?

That wouldn't solve anything. It would only piss off the Stynes—especially Victor, who wanted to drag out his bride's suffering—and it might spell disaster for the hostages in the laboratory. Sam couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk much of anything anymore.

Sick to his stomach, Sam trudged to the bathroom and threw up. Afterward, he brushed his teeth and washed his face, hoping to cover up the incident. Then, he walked back out, only to find Jacob waiting by the door. They stared at each other, neither speaking a word, and Sam didn't have to be psychic to recognize his would-be brother's possessiveness. Unfortunately, because he _was_ psychic, it was that much more noticeable and suffocating.

"We're skipping breakfast in favor of brunch," Jacob eventually broke the silence. "I came to see if you'd be up for a morning run, but…" He cut the distance between them and pressed his hand against Sam's forehead. It was an oddly benign gesture, reminding Sam of Dean. "You're a bit feverish. Can't say I'm surprised, with everything you've been through lately. Come on. Caroline will have a remedy."

"I want to see Jessica," Sam said as Jacob led him by the wrist out into the hallway. They made their way through the circuitous labyrinth at an easy pace.

"Not now," Jacob told him. "She doesn't seem to be an early riser."

Well, that was crap, but Sam wasn't at liberty to object. Frustrated, he tried to concentrate on his balance, and soon they were downstairs in the foyer where Caroline and Victor were finalizing details with the undead staff. One look at Sam, however, caught the matriarch's attention.

"Everything all right?"

Jacob shook his head. "Kid needs something for a fever."

Caroline's expression softened while Victor snorted.

"A fever?" he asked derisively. "Let me tell you what he really needs. A few enhancements." Sam's heart skipped a beat and he would have fell back a step if Jacob wasn't clutching his wrist. "Give us three hours in the lab, and I'll have his immune system up to par. You know he's not a true Styne without an upgrade."

Sam flashed back to Shreveport where a demon tattooed him with the family crest. That was bad enough, but this? It would contaminate him in ways that could never be undone, much like Azazel's demon blood. He tried not to panic. "No!" The word slipped out despite his best efforts.

"No," Jacob agreed, inserting himself between Sam and Victor. "He's not ready yet."

 _Thank God!_

"What difference does that make?" Victor demanded, crossing his arms. "The sooner he's one of us, the better."

"No, Jacob's right," Caroline said. "Sam's still adjusting to his psychic abilities. He doesn't need the extra weight of physical modifications. Maybe in a week or two."

Sam sagged in relief even as the possibility of two more weeks here repulsed him. But there was nothing he could do about it. By then, it might not matter what they did to his body. By then, he might not be himself anymore—especially if he lost Jessica. He could already feel himself on the verge of defeat. It was only a matter of time.

"Very well," Victor grumbled. "If that's your wish, who am I to suggest otherwise?" For a split second, his feelings betrayed more than just his rivalry with Jacob. Sam could sense his hatred. But then he remembered himself, and he turned away to resume command over his servants. Caroline motioned for Sam and Jacob to follow her across the foyer towards the back of the mansion.

As they went, Sam regarded his captor and—against his better judgment—said, "Thank you." He regretted his words immediately. _Thank you?_ What the hell was he thinking? And what would Dean say? He'd be as pissed as their dad would be disappointed.

Jacob, on the other hand, felt a rush of satisfaction that Sam inadvertently shared. It made him wince.

"Don't worry, little brother. I won't let you be enhanced anytime soon. I've come to enjoy caring for you, so I'd rather you remain weak and vulnerable for as long as possible."

 **SPN**

Considering all the other rooms in the mansion, it wasn't particularly surprising when Caroline brought them to a private infirmary with a single bed and all the medical equipment they could need. While the upstairs laboratory reeked of torture and sadism, this place offered a more healing vibe.

Caroline instructed her patient to sit before rummaging through a cabinet where she quickly produced a crystal vial. "Here we go!" In a single, fluid motion, she unstoppered it and offered it to Sam. "Drink." The weird smell made him grimace, and when he took a sip, the potion burned the back of his mouth, making him cough.

Fortunately, whatever the ingredients were, they acted quickly. Sam felt more like himself in fifteen minutes, which pleased Caroline, because she had a brunch to prepare. While she disappeared into the kitchen, Jacob led Sam out onto the patio where the Fontaines, Earl, and Cyrus were enjoying the weather. They sat for over an hour, talking about the wedding and what they would all do after its culmination. Though some of it concerned him, Sam found it hard to listen—his mind kept wandering back to Jessica.

By mid-morning, they were summoned to a grand ballroom with an abstract carpet, over eight chandeliers, and balconies on every side. Round tables were assembled along the perimeter of the dance floor, and in the back, a temporary stage was available for the bridal party. So far, nothing was decorated, but it still gave them an idea of what Caroline had in mind for the reception on Sunday night.

"We only have two and a half days left," she pointed out as they gathered in the corner where three tables were covered with an assortment of breakfast foods. William, Victor, Elizabeth and Jessica were already present, and while the men seemed to appreciate Caroline's work, Elizabeth and Jessica were both dispirited—Jessica in particular. She was still bound and gagged, wearing the same dress from last night, and Sam noticed a dark bruise on her ankle.

"As we eat," Caroline continued, "I want to hear everyone's thoughts on the room layout and potential decorating ideas. Keep in mind, we're sparing no expense, so don't hold back."

Before Sam could reach Jessica, Jacob grabbed his arm and maneuvered him to a seat at a different table where they weren't even facing each other. Sam complied, but glanced over his shoulder to meet her gaze, and from what he could tell, she was barely holding herself together. "Jacob," he whispered to keep from disrupting a lively debate between Paige, Earl and William. "When can I talk to her?"

"To Jessica?" Jacob feigned surprise while dumping biscuits, gravy, and home fries onto Sam's plate. "I'm not sure that's in your best interest, little brother."

"But I thought she was a gift?"

Jacob laughed. "True, and while we absolutely want you to enjoy her, some gifts come with restrictions. I mean, Cyrus might be old enough for his first pistol, but we're not gonna let him shoot bottles off a fence unsupervised. He might hurt himself. The same principle applies here."

It took every ounce of discipline for Sam to remain civil. "How?"

A twinkle lit Jacob's piercing blue eyes. "She's a bad influence, Sammy. You belong to us now, and believe it or not, you're starting to accept it." Sam flinched, but didn't dispute the claim. "Jessica, on the other hand… She'd like nothing more than to turn you against us, and we can't let that happen, now can we? So for the moment, it's better this way. You're lucky she's here at all."

 _Yeah, right._ Sam tried a new approach. "She needs something to eat."

"I doubt she's hungry."

Realizing he wouldn't get anywhere with mere petitions, Sam set his jaw. He could think of one other way to pull Jacob's strings, but it would require him to act like a little brother, which was loathsome. Still, for Jessica, he'd do anything. "I'll play you for it."

Jacob froze, staring at Sam in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"I'll play you for it," he repeated. "Pool. I win, I get to untie Jessica and help her feel more comfortable." Since Jacob had mentioned the game at dinner last night, it was possible he'd take the bait, and sure enough, his surprise quickly gave way to desire. After all, he loved a good challenge.

"And if I win?"

Sam hesitated. While pool had become a Winchester survival skill, and he was confident in his abilities, he honestly didn't know what he was up against. Jacob could be every bit as good—if not better.

Sensing his uncertainty, Jacob leaned forward. "If I win, you have to be Victor's best man, making the toast and everything—which is only natural, now that I think about it. Your girlfriend's the maid of honor, so why not? Deal?"

Sam nodded, hardly caring about Victor. "Deal."

 **SPN**

When word spread of the upcoming pool match, wedding plans were quickly placed on hold. If anyone else had challenged Jacob, it wouldn't be as compelling, but Sam was their favorite captive, and they couldn't pass up an opportunity to watch him jumping through hoops. Subsequently, after brunch, the entire party ventured into the billiard room where the men placed their bets. Arthur and Earl were rooting for Jacob; William and Victor were rooting for Sam—the friendly competition felt surreal.

Jessica was forced to stand between Paige and Elizabeth while Caroline refereed. Every time Sam glanced at his girlfriend, she gazed back at him desperately, unable to hide her fear. He made it a point not to read her mind, respecting her privacy, but he couldn't help sharing her emotions—they were too strong and too accessible. Worried they might interfere with his concentration, Sam turned to Cyrus for support. The kid was perched up on Earl's shoulders for a clear view of the table, and as always, he offered Sam a small but reassuring smile.

"If I detect any telekinesis," Caroline said, handing out cue sticks. "The offending player will be disqualified. Understand?"

"Yes ma'am," Sam and Jacob both agreed, not that either of them had ever employed such magic in their lives.

"Good." She placed the white cue ball by itself on the right side of the table, just behind the head string. "To recap, if Sam wins, he has permission to untie Jessica and make her more comfortable. If Jacob wins, then Sam has the honor of serving as Victor's best man at the wedding on Sunday. Are we in accord?"

"Yes ma'am."

She glanced specifically at Victor, who nodded his consent. "Excellent. Jacob, go ahead."

Before the game could start, they had to determine the order of play, which was done by 'lagging.' Jacob aimed for the foot of the table and struck the ball. It ricocheted off the bottom rail and came rolling back to lightly tap against the head rail. The idea was for it to land as close to the head rail as possible, and Jacob had incredible control—not to mention practice. The ball rested about an inch and a half from the head rail, making Arthur and Earl applaud. Sam would be hard-pressed to do better.

Caroline made a quick note of the ball's position and returned it to its starting point. "Sam, your turn."

Taking a deep breath, Sam approached the table and wondered if he could channel Dean. Not that he needed to—at least under normal circumstances—but right now, he was too tense for his own good, and he could certainly use his brother's nonchalance. Sure enough, the moment he struck the cue ball, he realized his mistake. Too much power. The ball sped down the table and bounced back smoothly, but forcefully. It hit the head rail and landed at least four inches away. Crap.

William and Victor held their breaths while Caroline clucked her tongue. "Sorry, sweetheart." She glanced at Jacob. "It's your choice."

Jacob hesitated, considering his options. As much as he wanted to win, he also wanted to test Sam's skill. Nevertheless, he opted to shoot first, and while Caroline racked the fifteen stripes and solids, Arthur and Earl cheered him on.

As soon as the balls were broken, Sam knew he was in trouble. Jacob managed to sink three consecutive stripes with masterful finesse, and could obviously keep it up until he won the game. Frustrated, Sam clutched his cue stick tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

But then, Jacob struck the ten ball and deliberately missed the pocket. He briefly smiled, but quickly forced a scowl to match Arthur and Earl's disappointment. Caroline narrowed her eyes, but didn't say anything, and Jacob shrugged. "Now's your chance, little brother. Mark my words, you won't get another."

He meant it, too. The stakes were high enough to ensure Sam's best performance—otherwise his heart wouldn't be in it—and apparently Jacob welcomed his determination. Still, he had a reputation to maintain, so if Sam miscalculated, the game might as well be over.

Casting one final glance at Jessica, and then Cyrus, Sam focused on the table and tried to center himself. He could do this. His family hustled pool all the time. It was easy. The only problem was the pressure he put on himself. He had to relax!

Taking another deep breath, Sam ignored everyone around him and aimed for the solid two ball. It went straight into the left-side center pocket. He tuned out William and Victor's encouragement and aimed for the solid six ball, dunking it into a corner pocket. The cue ball found itself surrounded by the four remaining stripes, and to continue his streak, Sam had to bounce it off the side rails. His angles were perfect, and he managed to sink the yellow one.

Jacob cocked his head. "I thought you said pool wasn't your thing."

It was Sam's turn to shrug. "As in, I wouldn't choose to play it over darts, or a crossword, but I never said I wasn't good at it."

"Technicalities," Jacob countered, but not without admiration.

Sam proceeded to sink the final four solids, and won the game by hitting the eight ball into the targeted corner pocket. As Caroline acknowledged his victory, William and Victor heckled Arthur and Earl, who both groaned at their unnecessary loss. In their minds, Jacob was a fool for holding back, and they eagerly demanded a rematch.

Sam barely heard them. At Caroline's go-ahead, he bolted over to Jessica, circled around her, and fumbled with the ropes—his hands were shaking, so it took extra effort to loosen the knots. Once her wrists were free, he helped her remove the gag, and the next thing they knew, they were in each other's arms. She pressed her head against his shoulder, clinging to him like a lifeline, and he gently stroked her hair.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, wishing he could offer her more than an apology.

"It's not your fault," she said hoarsely.

All around them, the Stynes and Fontaines watched like nosy spectators. Jacob and Caroline were true to their words, but neither of them cared for Jessica's comfort. William and Victor were appeased by their winnings, but Arthur and Earl were equally bitter. Only Paige and Cyrus found the scrutiny awkward, and as for Elizabeth… She was beside herself, simmering in jealousy. Why should Sam have Jessica when she was cut off—perhaps forever—from her beloved Thomas? It wasn't fair.

Not for the first time, Sam despised his powers. He closed his eyes and took a minute to collect himself. Then, he glanced at Jacob. "Thank you." It was his second display of gratitude in a single morning, and his sincerity frightened him. But Jacob _had_ been holding back, allowing Sam to win, and he owed him for that. Didn't he?

Absolutely not! He didn't owe the bastard anything! He was here against his will!

And yet, Sam couldn't shake his appreciation for Jacob's leniency. He heard himself repeating those dreadful words. "Thank you."

 _What the hell is wrong with me?_

Jacob chuckled smugly. "Don't mention it, little brother. I had no idea losing could be so much fun."

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:** Uh-oh... They're really messing with Sam's head, aren't they? :-p _

_So... I haven't been getting as many reviews lately, which can be somewhat demoralizing. Please send me feedback! Otherwise, I have to convince myself it's worth all the time I'm putting into it, and I'd much rather you do that for me. Here's hoping I hear from each and every one of you!_


	21. Consequences

_**Author's Note:**_ _Thank you all so much for reviewing Chapter 20. Sometimes, I do get self-conscious, so I can't express how much I appreciated your encouragement. :-) Anyway, here's Chapter 21. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… Fri** **day, October 30, 2005)**

After the pool match, Jacob and Earl led Sam, Jessica, Elizabeth, and Cyrus to the kitchen where they would be out of Caroline's way. With just two days left until the wedding, she had to maximize their remaining time, and the fewer distractions, the better. Sam tucked his arm around Jessica's waist, holding her close, more for comfort than protection, since he couldn't even protect himself.

Cyrus had to admit, he wasn't happy by her arrival. It wasn't that he disliked her or thought she had cooties—a major concern for many of his schoolmates—but he knew enough about dating relationships to recognize the problem. If Sam and Jessica weren't happy to see each other, despite 'going out,' it meant Jessica was a hostage, not a gift. But the Stynes already had hostages. What did they need her for? Even at his age, Cyrus knew it wasn't a good sign.

"How about some ice cream?" Jacob asked as they gathered around the marble island in the heart of the enormous room. Sam, Jessica, and Elizabeth all wrinkled their noses, but Earl eagerly agreed. Together, they began rummaging through the cupboards in search of bowls. Meanwhile, Elizabeth helped Cyrus climb up on a wrought-iron stool so he could see over the island counter. It wasn't often that she took an interest in him, and Cyrus wasn't sure what to make of her unstable temperament.

Once Jacob and Earl were a safe distance away, over by the walk-in freezer, Sam regarded Jessica. "This is a stupid question," he whispered, "but I have to ask. Are you okay?" Cyrus noticed how tightly he gripped her hand. "Did they hurt you?"

"No, but Sam…" She glanced uncertainly at Cyrus and Elizabeth before springing some questions of her own. "What's going on? What are we doing here? What do they want from us? From you?" Sam hesitated, apparently at a loss. After all, it was a complicated story, and they only had as long as Jacob and Earl gave them.

"Allow me," Elizabeth offered curtly, tapping her fingers on the counter. Sam and Jessica seemed apprehensive by her interruption, but she obviously didn't care. "Long story short, I'm a fortune-teller, and last year, I read Sam's palm. He's supposed to rain destruction down on civilization as we know it." Sam groaned while Jessica blanched, but Elizabeth was not deterred. "My family likes the idea, but Sam was raised to fight evil, so he's naturally against it. And now, at the recommendation of a demon, my family has taken Sam in as one of our own, and slowly but surely, thanks to a near endless supply of hostages—yourself included—we're reconditioning him to embrace his destiny."

Jessica shook her head. "You're insane."

Elizabeth chuckled mirthlessly. "I've been called worse. But it's all true, I can promise you that."

"Please," Sam said with the same haunted expression he always wore when contemplating the future. "Elizabeth, just stop. I know you're jealous, and believe me, I know how much it all sucks, but don't take it out on Jess. She's never done anything to you."

Elizabeth's eyes flashed. "Don't presume to know how I feel! You might be psychic, and you might be catching glimpses, but I'm still shielding you from the brunt of my agony. You'd do well to remember that." Jessica blinked. All things considered, Cyrus thought she was coping fairly well under the circumstances.

Sam stared down at the counter. "I'm sorry about the other night," he told her remorsefully. Elizabeth sighed, running a hand through her hair. "And I'm sorry it feels like I'm abandoning you. I'd help you if I could. But I can't fight this. Not anymore."

His admission was like a punch in the gut. Cyrus found it hard to breathe, and judging from the looks on Elizabeth and Jessica's faces, they were equally as horrified. No! Cyrus didn't want his family dictating his character. He didn't want to be a bad guy. He was depending on Sam to rescue him. "But, what about your dad? Your brother? They're still coming to get us out of here, aren't they?"

Elizabeth and Jessica glanced at him in surprise—he didn't speak often, and occasionally people forgot he was in the room. He was no stranger to feeling invisible. Sam, however, was always mindful of his presence, even around the others, and Cyrus loved him for that.

"I hope so," he whispered, unable to hide his misgivings, but he couldn't elaborate, because Jacob and Earl were on their way back to the island. They were carrying trays with three bowls each, and as much as Cyrus loved ice cream, he wasn't in the mood. Besides, even kids could recognize bribes; they weren't as stupid as grown-ups thought.

"Sorry that took so long," Jacob said amiably. "We decided to pull out all the stops."

"We have Pecan Praline for Lilibet," Earl said, leaning over the counter to set a bowl in front of her. "Rocky Road for me, and Neapolitan for Cy." The sundae came loaded with hot fudge, rainbow sprinkles, whipped cream, and a cherry on top. Normally delicious. Presently distasteful.

"And I have Dutch Chocolate," Jacob continued. "With Cookies 'n Cream for Jessie, and Vanilla Bean for Sammy." Unlike the others, Sam's sundae only came with nuts and fruit. Jacob winked at him. "I thought you'd appreciate the healthier option."

Sam nodded uncomfortably. "Thank you." One look at Jessica told Cyrus how much she abhorred Sam's restraint, not that he had much choice. It wasn't fair, and the only reason Cyrus picked up the spoon in his bowl was to follow Sam's lead, so he wasn't alone. They both took slow, painful bites, while Jacob and Earl watched in amusement.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "I'm not eating this. Neither is Jessica." She pushed both bowls away, making Jacob grimace. They glared at each other impatiently and Elizabeth crossed her arms. "What? We're ladies. We don't eat junk food this close to a wedding."

Earl scoffed. "So now you care about the wedding?"

Elizabeth smirked. "No, but I fully intend to poison everyone at the reception, and femme fatales should always look their best. So whatever you do, Jacob, don't drink the champagne."

"Funny," he replied. "And you didn't think to mention this earlier?" He indicated the rejected ice cream.

"Oh, I thought about it," she assured him. "But chose not to."

"You know, you can be a real bitch."

Her smirk became a snarl. "I've been taking out my anger on Sam, but you know what, Jacob? He was right. He's not the one abandoning me to Victor. You are. And the sad thing is, you don't even like Victor."

"He's still family," Jacob said, shoulders tense. "And I'm loyal to my family. You? You only care about yourself. Growing up, I gave you everything. I loved you like a sister, and you treated me like a pawn. So don't talk to me about abandonment when you walked out on us. As far as I'm concerned, this is justice."

"I didn't walk out on you," Elizabeth protested. "It was never about you! I walked out on Monroe."

"He didn't deserve your scorn. He was only looking out for your best interests. That damn Yankee's beneath you."

Cyrus wasn't sure which Yankee they were talking about, but mentioning him was a bad idea. Elizabeth flushed, and the only warning they had of her imminent eruption was Sam doubling over, gasping in pain while clutching his head. Jessica squeaked, and before anyone could register what it meant, a wave of violent energy flared out of Elizabeth, making her hair billow. It knocked Cyrus off his stool, and he hit the ground hard—so did Sam, Jessica, and Earl. Only Jacob managed to weather the blast.

Fortunately, it was a short-lived tempest. Elizabeth's abilities were under Aunt Caroline's control, and while a rush of emotion might trigger a supernatural frenzy, it wasn't sustainable. Elizabeth screamed, not in rage, but turmoil. Moments later, she collapsed, unconscious, and the disturbance was over.

Groaning, Cyrus sat up and glanced warily around the room. Was anyone hurt?

"Sam!?" Jessica was on her knees, easing Sam onto his back—he wasn't moving, his eyes were shut, and blood was spilling from his nose. Suddenly, Cyrus felt woozy. "Sam!"

"Damn it." Jacob scaled the marble island and leapt across it like a cat. Landing next to Sam, he shoved Jessica out of the way and tenderly brushed the hair from the young man's face. "Earl, we need Aunt Caroline! Now!"

Cyrus watched his cousin dart anxiously from the kitchen, sensing the urgency. Whichever spell Caroline used to subjugate Elizabeth would not take her defiance kindly, and if Sam's psychic abilities tapped into her outburst, they were no doubt tapping into her punishment. He and Elizabeth might be unconscious, but that didn't mean they were dead to the world, and Cyrus didn't want to consider the pain they might be suffering in their sleep.

"Don't touch him!" Jessica launched herself frantically at Jacob, but her efforts to yank him off Sam were flimsy. They only provoked him to stand up and grab her arm—Cyrus flinched at the hostility in his eyes. Without a word, he marched her across the room, ignoring her cries, and swiftly locked her in the walk-in freezer. Then, he returned to Sam's side and carefully held his head in his lap.

Listening to Jessica pound on the freezer door, Cyrus stared at his older brother, and for the first time in his young life, felt something akin to true hatred.

 **SPN**

Hours later, all was quiet. Caroline had managed to restore Sam with the help of a crystal and a potion. Now, he was in bed resting. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was not given the same treatment—she was carried up to her room by an angry Jacob and left unconscious on the floor. Meanwhile, Cyrus let Jessica out of the freezer and smuggled her to the parlor, where she curled up in a blanket and fought back tears. She could have died in there, and Cyrus found himself wondering if Jacob meant for that, or if he was just being careless.

Eventually, the sun began to set, its radiant light pouring through the windows and casting a crimson glow on the walls. Cyrus closed his book and glanced at Jessica—she had cried herself to sleep. Feeling antsy and wanting to stretch his legs, he slipped out of the room and began wandering the halls. The mansion was enormous, and even after a week, he still had much to explore.

Upstairs, where navigation became more difficult, Cyrus had to focus on not getting lost. There were too many twists and turns. What was the point? Unless the builders enjoyed Hide and Seek, it made no sense.

After a good ten minutes, Cyrus approached a partially open door with voices coming from inside. He paused, common sense telling him to retreat while curiosity and resent urged him to advance. It was none of his business, but at the same time, it could be important. Knowledge was power, and without power, how could Cyrus help Sam? Holding his breath, he crept closer to the door and listened.

"This isn't going to work," his uncle's voice was saying. "And if word gets out, it will humiliate our family."

"I'm not seeing another option," his aunt replied. "But I'm confident it will work, and no one's going to notice. Certainly not Sam. I'll make sure of that."

Uncle William grunted. "How? Over-stimulation? I thought we fetched that pretty little blonde thing to coerce him into harvesting a lab rat. Well, pardon me for saying so, but you can't expect him to wield a scalpel if he's over-stimulated. You're asking too much, my dear."

Cyrus had to cover his mouth to keep from gasping. They wanted Sam to harvest someone? A string of bad words—picked up from his cousins—whirled through his mind. Could this day get any worse?

"You should have more faith in me," Aunt Caroline said. "We'll over-stimulate him for the wedding, and take pity on him at the start of the reception. Jacob will hand him a crystal to manage the noise, and by then, Sam will be desperate enough to make full use of it. So when the time comes, he'll have his wits back while being none the wiser."

Another grunt, but Cyrus didn't hear his uncle's next few words. He was distracted by the weight of a heavy hand on his shoulder. Startled, he jerked around to see his brother watching in disapproval. "Jacob!"

"Eavesdropping, Cy?" Jacob clucked his tongue and subsequently dragged Cyrus through the door into a dark study lit only by the blazing flames in the fireplace. William stood by the mantel, drinking brandy, while Caroline reclined on a chaise lounge, twirling one of her crystals around her fingers. They both glanced up at the intrusion, shadows obscuring their faces. "I beg your pardon," Jacob said, shoving Cyrus forward. "But it seems we have a fledgling spy in our midst."

Silence. A pit was forming in Cyrus' stomach, and he began to sweat. Even though he couldn't make out their expressions, he knew they weren't pleased. Especially when Caroline said, "Now sweetie, what did I tell you about breaking the rules? Didn't I warn you not to get caught?"

Cyrus shivered. "I was just taking a walk! I didn't mean to do anything wrong!"

"How much did you hear?" William demanded.

"I… Nothing… I mean… I… uh…" He stumbled over his words, which hardly helped his case. William and Caroline exchanged pointed looks, and Cyrus cringed. "I won't say anything!"

"Well, you're right about that," Caroline assured him before glancing at his brother. "Now Jacob, you strike me as a well-adjusted young man. I assume your father disciplined you as a child?"

"Yes ma'am," he calmly verified.

Caroline smiled. "Of course he did. I expected no less. Which makes me wonder how Monroe would handle a child who has, however inadvertently, stumbled upon sensitive information that mustn't be disclosed? Especially when the child can't be trusted to keep his mouth shut. After all, it's no secret Cyrus and Sammy have grown rather fond of each other."

Jacob considered her words and nodded his understanding. "I think a time out's in order. Don't worry, Aunt Caroline. I'll take care of it." Cyrus' heart skipped a beat, but before he could make a run for it, Jacob grasped his arm.

"Good," Caroline said dismissively. "Now if you don't mind, your uncle and I were in the middle of an important conversation."

"Yes ma'am."

"Shut the door on your way out," William added.

"Yes sir."

With that, Jacob turned on his heel and dragged Cyrus back out into the hallway. He pulled the door shut and glowered at the boy. "You stupid little runt. You think I want to deal with this crap on top of Lilibet? What's wrong with you?"

"Jacob, I'm sorry!" Cyrus exclaimed. "Please! Just send me to my room! I won't say anything!"

His brother scoffed. "I don't think so. If you're so eager to learn our family's secrets, then it's high time we exposed you to my personal favorite." Cyrus felt sick, but was helpless to resist as Jacob dragged him through the mansion—he was too young, too small, too frail. Soon enough, they entered the library, and from there, they climbed a spiral staircase up to a balcony. They came to a bookshelf with a hidden switch that opened a secret door into the notorious laboratory.

"Jacob!" Cyrus couldn't keep the terror from his voice, and his brother's icy glare began to thaw.

"Relax," he gently advised. "I know it's hard now, but like I told Sammy, it'll get easier in time." They quickly passed a slew of intimidating machines, most of which Cyrus could not identify, and approached a medical area with a row of cylindrical containment pods. Several were empty, but two held men, and two held women. They were obviously the hostages Sam was so determined to protect, and Cyrus balked at the sight of them.

"Unfortunately," Jacob said, making a beeline for the pods. "I need you to stay here until our aunt and uncle are satisfied you won't interfere with their plans."

Each pod was built on a cylindrical platform, about a foot tall. Selecting one at random, Jacob pressed his shoe against a button on the ground. The sturdy, transparent glass sank into the floor, allowing Jacob to pick his brother up and set him on the platform. He released the button, and the glass rose back up to the overhead cap, sealing Cyrus inside.

Turning in a tight circle, Cyrus pressed his hands against the confining cylindrical walls. It was only about two feet in diameter, which must have been torture for the other prisoners. Literally torture. They barely had room to sit, much less lie down. And they were probably starving. Cyrus' eyes pricked with tears. "Jacob!" he called out to his brother. "Please don't leave me here!"

Jacob cocked his head and held a hand up to his ear. He mouthed the words, "I can't hear you!" Apparently, the pods were soundproof. Smirking, Jacob turned to regard the other men and women, who were all petrified. Three of them were screaming—unheard—while the fourth, a brunette in her twenties, was sobbing hysterically. A feeling of dread passed through Cyrus, especially when his brother advanced on the brunette.

"No, no, no!" This wasn't happening. Cyrus watched in disbelief as Jacob opened the woman's pod and snatched her wrist. He yanked her off the platform and into his embrace. "No!" Cyrus slammed his hands against the glass. "Jacob, stop! Don't do this!" His brother ignored him, hauling the woman over to an operating table where he strapped her down with minimal effort.

Realizing he was helpless to prevent this atrocity, Cyrus spun around and covered his mouth, not wanting to watch. His brother was a monster. And one day, no matter what Sam said, Cyrus worried that he might become a monster too.

 **SPN**

 **(Omaha, Nebraska** **… Fri** **day, October 30, 2005)**

Ellen sat alone in an empty conference room at the FBI's Omaha field office. Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the attack on the Meadowlark Hotel, and she was exhausted. An ugly lump marred her forehead, courtesy of Freddie Styne, whose body had been recovered along with the zombies at the scene of the crime. Thank God for that—at least one of the bastards was dead.

Jessica… Ellen had failed her in every sense of the word, and the shame was overwhelming. After thirteen months, she loved the girl like a daughter—as much as Jo—and she would have happily given her life to protect her, the way Joel Paulson, Brian Hale and Connor Burckle had given theirs. It wasn't fair. But then again, life never was, and Ellen withstood her survivor's guilt by resolving to put an end to the Stynes. No matter the cost.

In the midst of the silence, her phone began to vibrate. She had already spent hours on the damn thing, talking to Henriksen, talking to Jo, talking to Bobby, talking to God knows how many others with an interest in the case. She was sick of talking. She wanted to act! And if she had been any less responsible, she would have sent the call straight to voicemail. But the fact was, since becoming a mother, she always—always!—answered her phone.

"What!?" That didn't mean she had to be polite.

"Ellen?"

She barely recognized the gruff male voice on the other end. "John?" Surprised, she sat up straight. Why was John Winchester calling her? Granted, the Meadowlark had been on the news, but the feds made sure to keep Ellen and Jessica's involvement under wraps. Obviously Dean could have told him, but according to Bobby, they hadn't heard from John in days. "What's going on? Where are you?"

"Never mind that. I heard about the Meadowlark. Tell me exactly what happened."

Typical hunter. He had a mission to accomplish, and there wasn't any time to waste on pleasantries. Insufferable bastard. But then again, John was also a parent. His son was in danger, and Ellen understood his focus.

"It happened Wednesday," she subsequently reported. "I was on patrol with Agents Paulson and Hale. Jess was down in the bar with Agent Burckle. She said she noticed someone watching her, but Burckle had no idea what she was talking about. He didn't see anyone. John… she claimed it was Mary. Your wife."

"The girl saw Mary?" He couldn't hide his bewilderment, but to his credit, he didn't sound skeptical.

"She was terrified," Ellen said. "I figured the Stynes were somehow involved, so we began the process of relocating. We just weren't fast enough. By the time we made it downstairs, the doors were all blocked by walking, decomposing corpses—a small army of Frankenstein's monsters. I don't think they're technically zombies, but that's what they looked like. We were trapped inside, so we ran for the roof, but the Stynes cut us off. All three of the feds were killed. I was knocked unconscious. And now Jess is missing."

"I'll get her back," John promised, but Ellen wasn't fooled. Oh, she had no doubt he would make an effort to save his son's girlfriend, but Jessica's safety was far from his first priority. He only cared about his children.

"What's the plan?" she asked, and John must have sensed her agitation.

"I'm still working out the details."

"Mm-hmm." And Jo wondered why Ellen despised hunting. "Well, Bobby and Dean are on their way back from Rome with a key that can open the portal between realities. Tomorrow, we're gonna rendezvous in Atlanta to make our next move. You're welcome to join us."

"No!" John was adamant. "Dean's a legacy. The Stynes have left him hanging for a week just to punish him, but now, I'm sure they'd love to get their hands on him. I don't want him anywhere near that safe house. Do you understand?"

"Of course I understand," Ellen retorted. "I'm a mother, you son of a bitch."

"Good. You tell Dean to stand down and wait for me."

Ellen rolled her eyes. "Tell him yourself. Bobby says they haven't heard from you since Sam's capture. Dean could use your reassurance."

"I don't have time for that," John growled, much to her astonishment. "I only have two days to finish strategizing, and I need to concentrate. Frankly, I only called you for a firsthand account of the Stynes' tactics, and I'm not even sure that was worth it. Dean's a grown man. He'll survive. It's Sam I'm worried about."

Ellen's blood began to boil. "My God. Are you really that callous? Do you even know what it means to be a father?"

John paused, and because he had been like family once, Ellen recognized his remorse. But that didn't change anything. He still had a mission to accomplish, and he was too stubborn to second-guess himself, too set in his ways, especially when he thought he knew what was best. "I'll call you when this is over, Ellen."

The line went dead, and Ellen stared at her phone in resignation. Sighing, she shook her head. "No you won't."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	22. Desperate Times

_**Author's Note:**_ _Yay, Dean's back! That said, I have never been to Europe, and I am not a historian. Please forgive me for any potential mistakes. I did my best._

 **SPN**

It was painful to admit, but Dean had a problem with flying. Growing up, he had only been on a plane once, on a relatively short jump from Sioux Falls, South Dakota to Jackson, Wyoming. He and Sam were staying with Bobby while John went on a dangerous hunt out in the mountains. After a few days, word came that John had been severely injured, and was fighting for his life on a hospital bed. Since Bobby couldn't get John on the phone, he took the call seriously, and the next thing Dean knew, he was over thirty thousand feet in the air.

The experience was traumatizing. The air pressure made his ears pop, and the turbulence reminded him of that San Francisco earthquake back in 1989. (Sometimes, their lives really sucked.) Of course, it didn't help that he was worried about his dad, and it certainly didn't help that the whole thing turned out to be a trap. The damn monster was trying to lure the boys into danger to use against their father. Luckily, Bobby's smarter than people give him credit for, and he killed the thing on sight. Nevertheless, Dean told himself he would never ride an airplane again.

But that was before the Stynes threatened his brother, and according to Monroe's spirit, they could only rescue Sam from the safe house by opening the portal between realities with the proper entry spell. And for the entry spell to work, they needed "an ancient obsidian mirror that has been consecrated with infant blood at midnight near the temple ruins of the god, Janus. In Rome."

Son of a bitch.

Bobby had offered to go by himself—he knew how flying affected Dean, and he doubted the older brother would want to venture to the other side of the globe while the younger brother was in danger. He wasn't wrong, but then again, what could Dean possibly accomplish by remaining in the States? Absolutely nothing. He couldn't charge into the safe house, guns blazing, and he had no idea where his father was, so he couldn't team up with the old man. His options were limited. Either sit tight and wait, or hop a plane and dally with some dark magic. Not much of a choice.

Needless to say, he spent over nine hours clutching a fork, "in case some nutjob decided to try something," while making good use of the barf bag. Damn. The things he'd do for Sammy.

It took days to pull off their little quest. First, they had to find a museum with the right Stone Age exhibit. Apparently, the earliest man-made mirrors came from highly polished volcanic glass, which had been discovered in Turkey, dating back to 6,000 BC. Next, they had to break in and steal one. The acquired artifact didn't look like any mirror Dean had ever seen. As far as he could tell, it was just a round hunk of rock, three-and-a-half inches in diameter, with a slightly convex curve—like the back of a spoon. Still, it had a reflective surface, and Bobby was sure of himself. Its size made it easy to pocket, and the hunters went on their way.

That was the easy part. Then, they had to disguise themselves as phlebotomists in the pediatric ward to draw blood from the heel of an infant. Not Dean's proudest moment. He let Bobby do the talking—since he didn't speak a word of Italian—and happily kept his head down. His only consolation was that Bobby made it a point to 'botch' the first prick, so he had to repeat the process. The parents didn't know the difference, and the hospital received the blood it needed for the infant's care. Of course, the kid wasn't happy, but what the hell? Kids were resilient; he'd recover.

Finally, they had to bring the two ingredients to the Roman Forum where the Temple of Janus once stood. That required some stealthy, evasive maneuvering, especially after dark. Purchasing tickets for a night tour, they slipped away from their group and carefully sought out the proper location—it wouldn't be exact, but as long as they were in the vicinity of the ruins, they should be fine.

At quarter till midnight, Bobby summoned Monroe for last-minute details regarding the consecration ritual. The spirit was impressed by their progress, but not happy, and if it wasn't for the necromantic talisman in Bobby's possession, Dean would have feared for his friend's life. Monroe wanted to kill him. Hell, he _would_ kill him at the first opportunity. When this was finally over, they would have to determine what the feds did with Monroe's body, and they would have to salt and burn it. No question about that. In the meantime, Bobby banished the spirit, invoked Janus, and began drizzling blood on the mirror.

They left Europe on Friday night—it was the only flight available on such short notice. Smuggling a stolen mirror through security was yet another challenge, and Dean had no idea how he would have managed it without Bobby's expertise. Honestly, none of it would have been possible without the old hunter. Dean owed him everything. At one point, during the return flight, he tried to express his gratitude, but he didn't have Sam's eloquence, and with his nerves already on edge, he sounded like an idiot. Bobby told him to shut up, and he promptly obeyed.

God, he hated this. Why would anyone choose to vacation in Europe? History was overrated, and hardly worth such a lengthy plane ride. True, the Old World might have some decent hunting grounds, but Dean's responsibility was America. He didn't need the weight of an entire planet on his shoulders. Let the Europeans take care of their own turf.

Closing his eyes, Dean tried to sleep. He needed his strength for the battle ahead, but it wasn't easy. He couldn't shut his brain off. He kept thinking of Sam, and what the Stynes might be doing to him. He was still haunted by Jacob's words.

" _And how proud will your daddy be when he finds out you weren't able to protect your baby brother? Isn't that your job, Dean? I could kill you right now, but that's not as much fun as leaving you behind, knowing you failed in every sense of the word. Don't worry. We'll take good care of Sam."_

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

After three hours, Dean puked in the barf bag. Bobby handed him a pill to help "settle his stomach," but it was actually a tranquilizer, and Dean was knocked unconscious. When he awoke, it was two o'clock on Saturday morning—freaking time zones!—and the plane was on its final descent into Atlanta. They were home. Unfortunately, any relief Dean might have felt was fleeting—he took one look at Bobby and knew something was terribly wrong.

"I spoke with Ellen," his friend told him. "The Stynes have Jessica."

SON! OF! A! BITCH!

It was all Dean could do to keep from lashing out in violent frustration. He was on a plane—it wasn't a good place to make a scene—but he was pissed. If the Stynes had Jessica, they could crush Sam's spirit in a heartbeat. If they hadn't already. Dean remembered how lost and broken his brother had been the last time he was kidnapped, and that was only after two-and-a-half days! Now, he had been a prisoner for a whole damn week! Words could not describe Dean's anxiety. He wasn't prone to panic attacks, but this was different. This was Sam. And if the entry spell didn't pan out, he just might sell his soul to save the kid.

They disembarked the plane, passed through Customs, and came face-to-face with Special Agents Nathan Findley and Victor Henriksen. Dean had not actually seen them in over a year, but he recognized them quickly, and his temper flared. "You bastard!" He crossed over to Findley and struck him hard in the face.

"Dean!" Bobby exclaimed as the surrounding crowd jumped in surprise. While several people shrieked, some backed away, and two or three whipped out their cameras. Dean barely noticed. He went for another punch, which Findley scrambled to deflect.

"You said you'd protect her! You gave me your word!"

"Dean!" Bobby tried again, inserting himself between the hunter and the feds. He caught Dean in a bear hug, holding him back. "What the hell do you think you're doing!? This is an airport, you idjit!"

"I don't care!"

By that point, security was on its way, and Henriksen cut them off by flashing his badge. "It's all right! We've got everything under control." The guards were skeptical, and they talked for several minutes while Bobby pacified Dean.

"Believe it or not, they're doing everything they can to help us," he whispered in Dean's ear. "I spoke to Ellen, and their colleagues sacrificed their lives trying to stop the Stynes. It's not their fault the girl was taken. And if you think we're gonna infiltrate that safe house, just the two of us, you're out of your mind. We need them, so I need you to get ahold of yourself!"

Dean fumed, but nevertheless recognized the dismay in Findley's eyes. Taking a deep breath, he shook himself free, and ran his hands through his short hair. "Damn it."

"Dean, I'm sorry," Findley said sincerely. "Nothing I say can change what happened, and I know you don't trust us, but we're in this together. We're going to make this right, or we'll die trying. I promise."

"For whatever that's worth," Dean grumbled. Bobby glared at him before turning to shake Findley's hand. They introduced themselves and waited tensely for Henriksen to finish his conversation with the guards. It didn't take much longer, and then the supervisory agent rejoined them with a scowl.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked Dean, who made a face.

"It's been a bad week."

"Yeah, tell me about it." They considered each other irritably, reluctant to play nice when they both just wanted to vent their aggression. Henriksen had lost people too, and Dean could tell he was not in a forgiving mood. "Come on," he eventually said. "I reserved a private lounge where we can debrief and wait for Ellen. Her plane should be landing around nine-twenty."

"Ellen?" Dean asked in surprise even as his shoulders sagged. Nine-twenty? That was _hours_ from now! "Ellen's coming here?" He glanced at Bobby, who nodded precariously.

"Yep. She wants payback, and told us to wait for her, or else."

Dean did not want to get on Ellen's bad side—she was an impressive lady—but at the same time, he was sick of waiting. "No! Are you crazy? Sam needs our help! Now! And you want to wait for a civilian?" Just because she knew a lot of hunters and happened to be well-versed in the supernatural didn't mean Ellen was a hunter herself. She knew her way around most weapons, and had an excellent reputation, but they were talking about the Stynes here. "It's too dangerous."

"Don't underestimate her, Dean," Bobby replied. "She's strong, and she's capable, and we could really use an extra pair of hands. The Stynes have us outnumbered. Besides, we're still waiting to hear back from your dad."

Dean groaned. John would be furious if they opened the portal without him. "Have you called?"

Bobby nodded. "I called. Left a message. No response."

Henriksen narrowed his eyes. "Is that cause for concern?"

Bobby scoffed. "I doubt it. When John's working a case, he gets tunnel vision. Never stops to think about how others might worry. So let's see this lounge! If John doesn't return my call by the time Ellen arrives, we'll reevaluate. Until then, we should get some rest."

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… Satur** **day, October 31, 2005)**

Needless to say, the next few hours passed with no word from the eldest Winchester. Dean had always trusted his father; he always knew there was a reason for his radio silence. Sammy would be outraged, feeling discarded and neglected, but not Dean. He understood the practicality—the necessity—of John's behavior. The man knew what he was doing, and he never steered his family wrong. Dean didn't just respect him; he admired him and wanted to follow in his footsteps. But this time? This time, Sammy was hanging in the balance, and Dean was going stir crazy.

Why wouldn't his father call?

"Ellen!" Bobby welcomed the short, no-nonsense woman in Baggage Claim with a tight embrace. She could have died at the Meadowlark Hotel, and she could still die in the upcoming fight, so to hell with their game faces. They weren't taking a single moment for granted. "It's good to see you!"

"And you," she replied warmly. Ignoring Henriksen and Findley, she turned next to Dean with an air of regret. "I'd ask how you're doing, but I'm sure I know the answer. I'm sorry. I let you down."

"You did everything you could," Dean allowed, observing the lump on her forehead. "You're lucky to be alive."

"Maybe," she said. "We'll see how long that lasts." She finally glanced at the feds. "Henriksen. Findley. They died heroes, and I'll never forgive myself."

"It wasn't your job to protect them," Henriksen somberly pointed out. "And it's not your job to avenge them. You shouldn't even be here."

Dean gave the man a double-take. Wasn't it his idea to wait for Ellen in the first place? And now, suddenly, he was on Dean's side?

But Ellen stood her ground. "Neither should you. As I understand it, Deputy Director Steven Groves wants you back in DC for some kind of inquiry regarding the Meadowlark Hotel. Right now, you're practically AWOL, and if you try to conduct your unauthorized rescue mission without me, I swear to God, I'll report your ass."

Henriksen crossed his arms. "I could take you into custody. Confiscate your phone."

Ellen shook her head. "I already instructed my friend Ash to make the report on my behalf if he doesn't hear from me every hour, on the hour." Well that explained a few things. Dean had to give the lady credit; she was a force to be reckoned with. Smirking, she continued, "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get this show on the road." She caught Bobby's gaze. "Jim, Caleb and Rufus are waiting to meet us at an Econo Lodge just north of the airport. They've brought gear."

"Rufus?" Dean asked, unfamiliar with the name. Bobby nodded, wiping his mouth.

"An old friend," he said bleakly. "I honestly didn't think he'd come."

"Are you kidding?" Ellen asked. "It's been a year since we exposed the Stynes to the hunting community, and word travels fast. I can think of a dozen hunters who'd like nothing more than to help us put a stop to that family. I'm surprised you only requested three. We're still outnumbered."

"Yeah, well," Bobby shrugged. "Our job is to rescue Sam and Jessica. No sense bringing anyone who might mess that up."

 **SPN**

The Econo Lodge—courtesy of Pastor Jim—was a step up compared to most of the motels Dean frequented. The room was clean, fresh, bright and cheerful. Not to mention private. After closing the curtains, Caleb and Rufus were both comfortable unpacking their 'gear' for everyone to see. Combat knives, 18-inch machetes, Desert Eagle .50 caliber handguns, C-4, and most impressively, six P90s.

Henriksen and Findley gazed at the compact assault rifles in astonishment. It wouldn't have been so shocking if Jim and Caleb were actually from Homeland Security—as they claimed thirteen months ago when they broke Sam and Dean out of protective custody. But they were just hunters, and neither fed expected ordinary hunters to have military firearms.

"Where did you get these?" Henriksen demanded.

"Oh, we've been around," Rufus assured him. He was a brusque African-American, about Dean's height, with a few years on Bobby. Apparently retired and reclusive, he was only present 'for old times' sake.' He and Bobby hadn't seen each other in over a decade, but while friends of Bobby's weren't necessarily friends of his, family was a different story. Or so he said. "Don't know about you, but if I'm gonna die, I'm going out in style."

"We're not going to die," Caleb grumbled. "We strike hard and fast, and we don't give them a chance to retaliate. They're between realities, whatever that means, so the normal rules don't apply. Kill them on sight. Make it out alive."

Findley regarded Jim in curiosity. "And you're okay with this? Aren't pastors supposed to be merciful?"

Jim sighed. "'A shepherd must tend his flock. And at times… fight off the wolves.'"

"That's from _The Patriot_ ," Findley objected.

"It still applies."

"Can we focus, please?" Ellen snapped.

"Right," Bobby said. "Now, thanks to the FBI's surveillance, we know the Stynes are busy planning one hell of a wedding for tomorrow night. And you can be damn sure they're not inviting a multitude of harmless pansies. The longer we wait, the more reinforcements the Stynes will have. But if we go now, it's more likely they'll be caught distracted and off-guard. Hopefully, if there's any justice in the world, they'll be as stressed out as any other wedding party this close to the big day."

"What about my dad?" Dean asked.

"Oh, I spoke to your daddy last night," Ellen said, much to everyone's surprise. Dean approached her anxiously, and she spared him a reassuring smile. "He's fine. If he wasn't, I would have mentioned it sooner. He heard about the Meadowlark—on the news, I guess—and called to check up on me. And also to get my firsthand account of the Stynes' tactics. You know how he is. Anyway, I told him we're making our move, and he said he'd try to join us, but he's up to something, and might be delayed. The most important thing is rescuing Sam. John said if we have an opportunity, we take it. Even if he's not present."

Her words were met with silence. Rufus raised his eyebrows while Henriksen and Findley exchanged glances—what kind of father doesn't drop everything to rescue his son? Bobby frowned, noticeably perplexed, while Jim and Caleb watched Dean sympathetically. As for Dean, he felt his father's absence like a crushing weight. He didn't doubt that John had Sam's best interests in mind, but why did he have to be so secretive?

"You sure that's what he said?" Bobby asked with a hint of skepticism.

Ellen didn't waver. "You can call him if you want, but I doubt he'll pick up. And if he does, well, he doesn't take kindly to repeating himself. But I don't need to tell you that."

"Mm-hmm." Bobby wasn't satisfied, but then again, John could have that effect on people. Not everyone shared Dean's devotion for the old man. "In that case, I'd like some idea of what we're getting ourselves into, and since we can't exactly scope out the area, we're gonna need some inside information." He turned to Henriksen and Findley. "Agents. You better brace yourselves, cause this won't be pleasant." He pulled the necromantic talisman from his pocket.

Rufus groaned. "Is that what I think it is? Damn it, Bobby, are you out of your damn mind?"

"Kid needs my help," Bobby said. He took a deep, calming breath while Ellen retrieved a can of salt from her duffel bag. Following her lead, Jim and Caleb supplied iron crowbars—just in case—while Dean gripped his shotgun. When they were ready, Bobby summoned Monroe. Again.

Upon materializing, the spirit grimaced. "We can't keep meeting this way," he told Bobby. "People will talk."

"You're the only one who's talking. You're gonna tell us everything you know about that safe house and what to expect when we cross the portal."

"You want to know what to expect? Death, my friend."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "You're gonna have to be more specific."

Dean felt a chill on the back of his neck. It was probably just a result of Monroe's presence, but then again, this wasn't a normal haunting, and Monroe wasn't a normal ghost. What was it Rabbi Bass said at the abandoned mall in Toledo when Bobby first conjured the bastard? That necromancy is black magic, evil, forbidden, and bound to backfire.

They were in over their heads, and if they weren't careful, Sammy would pay for their recklessness.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	23. Trouble

_**Author's Note:**_ _I'm not very kind to Sam in this chapter. Consider yourselves warned._

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… Satur** **day, October 31, 2005)**

Lying on his back, Sam stared glumly at the overhead panel of his four poster bed. The temperature in his room had to have dropped below freezing, and he lacked the fortitude to shed what little warmth his blankets offered. In just a week, he had lost so much of his energy, so much of his resolve. What would another week bring?

Of course, it didn't help that his abilities were proving more detrimental by the day. Weren't they supposed to empower him? Caroline said unleashing his potential would help him fulfill his destiny. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe unleashing his potential would actually debilitate him—in which case, this could be for the best.

Tapping into Elizabeth's emotional frenzy had been the most excruciating experience of Sam's captivity. Not only was she heartbroken, angry and vindictive, she was also under Caroline's dominion, and her short-lived defiance triggered a mental backlash that hurled white-hot pain through every nerve in her body. It might have killed an ordinary human, and it would have killed Sam if Caroline hadn't stopped it in time. Lucky him.

After brooding awhile on his own plight, Sam's thoughts turned back to Jessica. Where were the Stynes keeping her? How was she coping? How did she react to his psychic episode yesterday? What must she think of him? It was bad enough having Elizabeth allude to his abilities directly in front of her, but to witness those abilities overwhelm him had to be horrifying. Sam never wanted Jessica to know about the supernatural. He honestly thought he could protect her from it—that one day they could live normal lives without fear of ghosts or demons. But the Stynes had thoroughly dashed those dreams, as unrealistic as they had been, and now it was too late. If Sam could at the very least get her out of this alive, it would be a miracle.

Suddenly, without warning, his door opened. As shaky as Sam was—having not fully recovered—it took some effort to sit up, and when he finally did, he found Victor watching him from the threshold of his room. Victor. Not Jacob, not Caroline, not Cyrus, but Victor. With his classy suit and stylish hair, he always seemed more regal than the others, but that didn't detract from his malevolence. Since Freddy's death, he had become the most antagonistic member of the family, and yesterday, he made it very clear he wanted to upgrade Sam. Obviously, they detested each other, but Victor also disliked Jacob, and Sam was practically Jacob's toy, which only complicated things. He did not want to be alone with the bastard.

Scrambling out of bed—gasping when his bare feet touched the ice-cold floor—Sam put as much distance between himself and Victor as possible. It wouldn't do much good; the damn warding still confined him to his quarters, and he had no means of escape. But then again, he would rather be backed against a wall than cornered in his bed.

Victor smiled at him. "It's good to see you up and about, Sammy. You had us all worried yesterday."

Sam shivered. "What do you want?"

His smile turned hard and brutal. "The wedding is tomorrow night," he pointed out. "Caroline, Earl and the Fontaines are all buried in last-minute preparations. William and Jacob are busy writing toasts. Elizabeth, Cyrus and darling Jessica are likewise indisposed." Sam felt a wave of panic. "Under the circumstances, I can't think of a better opportunity for us to have a nice little chat." He stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind him.

"Stay away from me," Sam said, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Victor raised an eyebrow. "Watch your mouth. Or shall we finish this in the laboratory?"

 _Crap._

Chuckling, he crossed over to Sam and pressed his hands on the wall to his right and left, trapping him in the compass of his arms. Sam was a few inches taller than Victor, but still felt smothered by his unwelcome proximity. The Styne was powerful, belligerent, and cruel. "Now then, why don't you tell me what you were doing inside my fiancée's head when she erupted yesterday?"

"What?" It took Sam a moment to process Victor's accusation—he must have taken Sam's affliction as evidence that he was already psychically linked with Elizabeth when it happened. "No! I wasn't in her head!" As much as Elizabeth hated Victor, he was jealous of her. He wanted to own her, to hurt her, to terrorize her, but he certainly didn't want to share her. "I swear to God! Elizabeth's been shielding her mind from me, just like everyone else, and I don't have enough experience with my abilities to penetrate any of your defenses. When she erupted, her emotions plowed into me, not the other way around!"

Victor considered him carefully for a long, painful minute. Sam knew better than to move, but he averted his eyes and wondered where Jacob was. If anyone had both the capacity and the inclination to fend off Victor, it would definitely be Jacob. Before he realized what he was doing, Sam mentally reached out for his would-be brother. _Jacob? Help me!_

"That's good," Victor finally said. "Because, if I didn't know any better, I'd think you might fancy her. You're always so considerate of her honor. And not that I'd blame you; she's quite the seductive little whore. But I can't have you rivaling me, now can I? So consider this a fair warning. If you give me one more reason to suspect an affair, then mark my words, I will take it out on your precious girlfriend."

Sam tensed. "Please. I don't want anything to do with Elizabeth. Just leave Jessica alone."

Victor nodded. "Believe me, as long as we understand each other, I have no interest in the girl. She's not my type. I prefer to conquer challenging prizes, not helpless morsels." As he spoke, he removed his left hand from the wall and brushed his fingers through Sam's hair. It made his blood curdle. "You know, today's my last day as a bachelor. I feel entitled to certain… indulgences."

 _Oh God._ Sam found it hard to breathe, and he clenched his eyes shut, thinking only of the hostages in the laboratory. Nevertheless, when Victor's hand slid down his cheek, he shakily objected. "Don't."

"What are you going to do, Sammy?" Victor taunted. "Are you going to fight me? I'd like that. In fact…" He leaned forward, getting right in Sam's face. "Just this once, you have my permission."

Sam didn't have to be told twice. He knocked Victor's hand away, head-butted him, and shoved him backwards. Unfortunately, he was still too depleted, and already knew he was screwed. Even without his physical enhancements, Victor had the advantage, and as he caught his balance, he licked his lips in desire. Sam couldn't believe this was happening.

A second later, Victor retaliated, rushing at Sam like a typhoon and slamming him back against the wall. The next thing he knew, Victor's mouth was planted heavily on his, tasting sour, and Sam recoiled frantically. It took everything he had to dislodge the bastard, and as soon as he slipped free, he made a break for the door—too desperate to think about the protective warding. He had to get away!

But then an invisible, telekinetic current swept him off his feet and tossed him to the ground. He scrambled to get up, but wasn't fast enough. Victor was standing over him, and he kicked him viciously in the stomach—twice. The second time served to propel Sam onto his back, so he was staring up at the vaulted ceiling in a daze. He glanced miserably at Victor, who wore a ravenous expression.

"It's okay to scream, Sammy," he said, nudging his foot over Sam's left palm, pinning his hand to the floor. He pressed down with crushing weight, making Sam gasp. "I doubt anyone will hear you." Sam reached over with his other hand to swat at Victor's ankle, and when that had no effect, he twisted his legs around in an effort to unbalance the bastard. It worked, and Victor went down hard.

Sam immediately rolled away, hoping to put more distance between them, but Victor followed close behind. Sam reared back and elbowed him in the face, which didn't seem to hurt him, but still stopped him short. He managed to get to his feet, but not for long. Victor snared his ankle and jerked him back to his hands and knees. He jerked again, and Sam was flat on his face. No, no, no!

Victor was on top of him, grappling with his arms. He forced Sam's wrists together and bound them tightly with some kind of abrasive twine. Satisfied, he smacked Sam firmly on the butt.

"You son of a bitch!" Sam protested, hoping to hide his panic.

Victor pulled him up to his knees and wrapped his arms around his torso, spooning him. "That's right," he whispered in Sam's ear. "Talk dirty." As he began kissing Sam's neck, one of his hands traveled to his waist and slipped up under his sweater. Disgusted, Sam bucked with enough urgency to topple them both to the floor, which wasn't an improvement. Victor wrestled him onto his back, mounted him, and smacked his lips against his mouth. Then, to make things even more unbearable, he shoved in his tongue.

Heart racing, Sam bit down as hard as he could, but it was like biting rubber, and didn't seem to faze Victor. If anything, it encouraged him, and the intrusive tongue slipped in deeper. Sam flushed, tears filling his eyes as he kicked his legs helplessly. Victor's tongue was dancing around his, at once playful and aggressive, and Sam couldn't stop it. He twisted his wrists, but the twine held fast, and he could only squirm as Victor's hands again found their way under his shirt. Damn it!

His only consolation was that Freddie died before treating Jessica to similar abuse.

Victor was inexorable. His fingers raked across Sam's skin, occasionally scratching him with his nails. His tongue ventured toward the back of Sam's mouth, making him gag before withdrawing. Was it over? No. Victor plunged back in, moaning in delight. Sam tried turning his head away, but the bastard followed him relentlessly. And every time he came up for air, he resumed his onslaught with greater enthusiasm. It was humiliating.

" _But we have to at least try getting out of here,"_ Elizabeth's words echoed in his mind, _"or I'm going to be at Victor's mercy, and you have no idea what that's like for a woman!"_

Sam had a horrible feeling that Victor was just warming up, and he still had a lot of molesting to endure. Son of a—! Where was Jacob?

As if on cue, the bedroom door burst open, and Sam's would-be brother charged in with a look of fury on his red face. "Victor! Get off him! Now!" He didn't wait for his cousin to obey, but grabbed him and propelled him across the room. Sam scurried in the other direction, cowering like a child in the far corner.

Victor was livid by the interruption. He jumped to his feet and turned on Jacob with a malicious scowl. "You ass! Haven't you already had your fill of the boy? It's my turn now!"

"I don't think so!" Jacob retorted. "He's mine, and I don't share!"

"We'll see about that," Victor snarled, unaccustomed to such resistance. As a rule, he always got his way. "You and I both know who's in charge here. I need only ask, and Aunt Caroline will happily offer him as a wedding gift. I might even take him on the honeymoon."

"Over my dead body!" Jacob was adamant, and Sam had never been more grateful for his possessiveness. "But it's not going to come to that, is it? I mean, you don't want Aunt Caroline fighting your battles, do you? Or have you no shame?"

Victor fumed, but couldn't think of a response. His gaze drifted over to Sam, and his appetite was unmistakeable. In fact, having been denied, it was even more insatiable than before.

"Get out!" Jacob barked, and surprisingly, Victor obeyed—but not without a final observation.

"Tread carefully, cousin. He's not your brother. He's only pretending for the sake of those lab rats, and if you drop your guard, he'll stab you in the back. I guarantee it." With that, he turned and disappeared into the hallway. Sam let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and began to shake.

Jacob glanced at him in concern. "Are you all right?" When Sam didn't answer, he crossed over to him and leaned down. "I sensed you calling out to me. I came as quickly as I could." With unexpected gentleness, he helped Sam to his feet and untied his wrists. Then, he led him over the fireplace and eased him into a chair. "It's going to be okay, kiddo. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Sam hated to admit it, but he found comfort in those words.

 **SPN**

Dean anxiously clutched his P90 as the ragtag team drove through Atlanta in Caleb's cargo van. He liked the feel of the weapon, and felt confident in his ability to wield it, but its many virtues also emphasized their need for lethal force. The Stynes were dangerous, deadly, despicable monsters, and they had his baby brother. The more he dwelled on it, the more upset he became. Sammy…

Sensing Bobby's gaze, he made a face. "Would you stop staring at me? I'm fine!"

Bobby shrugged. "Sure you are." He hesitated briefly, but then said, "Look, I don't want you getting any bright ideas. You're a legacy, and the Stynes want you alive, that's true, but it doesn't mean they won't risk hurting you. They still shot Sam in the leg, remember? They'll do everything they can to incapacitate you, so don't think you can get away with being reckless, you understand me?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

"He's right, Dean," Jim agreed, but Caleb cut him off.

"Leave him alone. He's not a kid anymore."

Somehow, Dean got the impression that Bobby, Jim and Ellen weren't convinced, but he didn't care. His dad trusted him to rescue Sam, and that was all that mattered. One way or another, this would end today, and if he had to get shot in the process, so be it. "How much longer?" he called out to Henriksen, who occupied the driver's seat.

"In this traffic? I'd say fifteen minutes."

Great. Dean sighed impatiently, and they passed the time in silence. At one point, Rufus pulled a flask from his coat pocket and took a massive gulp, earning him a glare from Bobby, but hell, they were on a suicide mission, weren't they? So no one commented. In fact, Ellen held out her hand, and Rufus kindly shared his drink.

Eventually, Henriksen parked the van about a mile from their destination, and after concealing their weapons in their cases, they all clambered out one by one. It was Halloween. Plenty of costumed adults were on their way to a nearby block party, and no one paid their group much attention, but it didn't hurt to be cautious. They hiked through the sylvan community as innocuously as possible, and soon enough, they were standing in the grove between 109 and 113 Monarch Avenue. All was quiet.

"Well, here goes nothing," Bobby said as they rearmed themselves. They only had six P90s, which were quickly claimed by Dean, Rufus, Caleb, Jim, Henriksen and Findley. Bobby and Ellen stocked up on the C-4, and they all took Desert Eagles, knives and machetes. Then, Bobby produced the obsidian mirror and dropped it on the ground. With a deep breath, he held his hand over the artifact and began chanting as Monroe instructed.

"Aperta. Ianua magna, aperta. Ianua magna, aperta tandem!"

The mirror flashed crimson, blinding Dean with its startling radiance. He turned his head, and almost lost his footing when a violent tremor shook the ground. Crap! How many people would feel that? What if the Stynes detected it? "Bobby?"

Before the old hunter could respond, the trees started rustling as the wind picked up. It was strong—Ellen's hair billowed around her face. Dean didn't have much experience with magic portals, but since they were basically tearing a hole in the fabric of reality, he wasn't surprised by the sudden commotion. It was probably natural—at least by supernatural standards. Right?

"Here it comes!" Findley shouted.

Directly above the mirror, with its crimson aura, a silver beacon fractured the air. Dean took an eager step forward, peering through the tunnel into an adjacent dimension where his brother was imprisoned. "I'm going!" He didn't wait for the others; he charged in headfirst. It was like hitting a wall of water—initially painful, then soothing. He sank into it, feeling wet, but remaining dry. Weird.

The next thing he knew, his body was yanked into a bleak, shadowy forest. What the—? He glanced around suspiciously. There were trees in every direction. The ground was covered in detritus. He thought he glimpsed movement from the corner of his eye, but when he turned, he found nothing. Just more wilderness. "Crap."

Moments later, he was joined by the others. The portal closed behind them, and they were stranded in the middle of nowhere. Not good! According to Monroe, the safe house presided over an impeccable lawn with several exquisite gardens. This place clearly didn't fit the description. So where the hell were they?

"Uh, Bobby?" Ellen asked nervously as they took stock of their surroundings. "What just happened?"

"What do you think happened?" Rufus barked. "We just got screwed by a ghost! So much for that damn talisman!"

Bobby shook his head. "Balls!"

They always knew Monroe would betray them at the first opportunity. After all, he was an evil psychopath. But how did he manage it? And what the hell were they supposed to do now?

"Hello, Dean," a voice called from behind. It was soft; pleasant; female.

Spinning on their heels, Dean and his friends all turned to find a solitary woman watching from a short distance. She was about Jessica's height, with pale skin and purple highlights in her long black hair. Dressed in leather, she carried herself with poise and presumption. "I've been waiting for you a long time."

"And you are?" Dean demanded even as Jim stepped between them.

"She's a reaper!" he exclaimed, unable to mask his fear. Dean tensed, and everyone raised their weapons in alarm. Granted, they couldn't stop a reaper, but what the hell? They were hunters; it was instinct.

Smiling in amusement, the woman tossed out her hip. "Not just any reaper. My name is Bianca, and I happen to work very closely with the Stynes." She zeroed in on Dean. "You're a legacy. Do you have any idea how good you smell?"

Dean felt a chill run down his spine as everything clicked together. "The ritual for the Stynes' reincarnation…"

"That's right," Bianca said. "They offer up legacies. I partake. And when they die, I return the favor by helping them back to life. It's a sweet deal, but these days, legacies are hard to come by. I haven't had the pleasure of one in over fifty years."

Bobby, Caleb and Findley immediately circled around Dean, while Ellen frowned. "I don't understand. Reapers are called to preserve the natural order of life and death."

Bianca shrugged. "Well, most of them are. I do on occasion. But the fact is, our head honcho's currently behind bars, and I couldn't care less about the natural order. I'm more of a free spirit."

"You've been chatting with Monroe, haven't you?" Bobby surmised.

"He came to see me after you conjured him in Rome," she acknowledged. "He explained how you'd be opening the portal between realities in search of his family's safe house. He asked if I might consider intercepting you. Which I did. In case you're wondering, this is Purgatory." She gestured at the forest surrounding them.

Dean groaned. Purgatory? That was an actual thing? "Son of a bitch!"

"So what do you want?" Bobby asked vehemently. "Dean's soul? Well, you can't have it, sweetheart. He hasn't been sacrificed in that damn ritual, and I'm guessing there's a lot of red tape involved. So piss off!"

She smiled sweetly. "Oh, don't you worry about Dean. I'll make sure he finds his way to Monroe's family. In the meantime, Robert Singer, you enslaved a very good friend of mine, and you have a lot to answer for."

 **SPN**

 _ **You Know You Want to Review!**_


	24. Purgatory

**SPN**

 **(Purgatory)**

"RUN!" Jim shouted.

They took off through the trees as fast as they could. It didn't make much sense; they couldn't escape a reaper. But they couldn't shoot her, either, so their options were limited.

"WHY AREN'T WE FIGHTING?" Henriksen yelled as the density of the woods forced them to fan out. If they weren't careful, they might get separated, and Dean didn't want to ponder the implications of getting lost in Purgatory. _Purgatory!?_ Honestly, what the hell?

"BULLETS AREN'T GOING TO WORK HERE!" Jim warned them, and Dean had no reason to doubt his words. After all, if anyone knew anything about their current location, it would be the pastor. Or Sam. Didn't Sam write an English report on Dante back in high school? And didn't Purgatory have something to do with that? Dean couldn't remember, and Sam wasn't here, so for the moment, they'd have to follow Jim's lead.

"YOU KNOW, THIS REALLY SUCKS, BOBBY!" Rufus shouted, and Dean risked turning his head to search for his old friend. He was the one Bianca wanted; he was the one in danger now, and Dean couldn't let him fall behind. If anything happened to Bobby… Well, it would hurt.

There! Dean spotted him twenty yards away, near Findley, and even from a distance, he recognized the man's expression. More frustrated than anything. "PUT A SOCK IN IT, RUFUS!"

They kept running, and Dean broke into a heavy sweat. Normally, he could run a marathon no problem—thanks to his dad's training—but after a week of world travelling and constant worry for his brother, he wasn't operating at his best. Thank God for adrenaline. Nevertheless, they could only run so far without a break, and eventually, they gathered together at the crest of a large ravine.

Dean did a quick headcount. Bobby, Ellen, Henriksen, Findley, Jim, Caleb, Rufus. Good. "We're all here." As they caught their breaths, they kept a lookout for their antagonist—and anything else that might be lurking in the shadows. So far, they seemed to be alone—but Dean could sense something watching. Weren't reapers capable of invisibility?

Gasping, Henriksen blinked several times. "Purgatory, huh?" He glanced from Bobby to Dean in wide-eyed astonishment. "We can get back, right? I'm not exactly ready to undergo purification, if you know what I mean."

Jim shook his head. "That's not what this place does." Making sure he had everyone's attention, he continued ominously. "Everything you think you know about Purgatory is a misconception. It was never meant for humans. It's meant for monsters."

Henriksen made a face. "I thought Hell was meant for monsters."

"No," Jim corrected. "Hell is meant for demons. There's a subtle difference. This place is the afterlife for vampires, wraiths, sirens, rugarus, kitsunes, and monsters you can't even imagine. Most of them aren't fazed by bullets, so keep your machetes handy."

"How do you know all this?" Bobby asked, looking as strained as Dean felt. This was officially the last place in the universe a hunter would want to visit. A forest full of deadly monsters? Not to mention a reaper? It didn't bode well for any of them.

Jim shot Bobby an uncomfortable glance. "We had a guest professor at seminary one semester. Dr. Eleanor Visyak. I think you might know her?"

Bobby cocked his head, obviously baffled. "That was a long time ago. She's not old enough to… Are you telling me she's an expert on Purgatory?"

"Let's just say she's been around the block."

"Can we talk about this some other time?" Caleb interrupted testily. "The fed's right. We need to focus on getting out of here!"

"Any bright ideas?" Rufus asked. All eyes landed squarely on Jim, and he nodded.

"As I was saying, Purgatory was never meant for humans. It doesn't want us here; it will try to expel us. If we can make it back to our starting position, we should be able to use the same incantation to reopen the portal. We might even be able to reach the Stynes' safe house. But that's assuming we can dodge the reaper, and I don't think she's going to make it easy."

"Of course not," Ellen grumbled, and Dean shared her discouragement. He could only think of one reason they were still standing here, alive and unharmed. Reapers were inescapable, which meant Bianca was toying with them, like a cat. She must be taking her time, happy to watch them stew in their fear and uncertainty. All this because Bobby dared to boss around a vengeful spirit. They should have known better. But then, how would they rescue Sam?

After a beat, Bobby took a deep, decisive breath and wiped his mouth. "All right. Here's the plan. Dean, I need you front and center. Right now."

Surprised and relieved, Dean dutifully obeyed. He trusted Bobby. He always had, and he always would. The man was a genius when it came to hunting, and he never let Dean down. So when he unexpectedly clubbed him on the side of the head, Dean could only register confusion as he dropped to the forest floor. A heartbeat later, he was unconscious.

 **SPN**

"What the hell, man?" Caleb jumped to Dean's side while scowling at Bobby.

"It's simple, really," the hunter explained, a hint of resignation in his voice. "We've got a rogue reaper on our hands, and she's out for my blood. I can draw her away from you lot—give you a chance to double back and make it outta here. Dean won't like it, but it's our only option, and we don't have time to argue."

Ellen could hardly believe what she was hearing. "Are you out of your damn mind? That's not a plan! That's suicide!"

"Maybe," Bobby shrugged. "But right now, my only concern is Sam. My life's a small price to pay for his, and I'm counting on each of you to rescue him."

Rufus grabbed his arm. "Are you telling me those boys mean that much to you?"

Bobby didn't blink. "Oh, they mean more."

"You're not their father," Rufus pointed out.

"So what?" Bobby pulled free and caught Jim's gaze. "You remember the incantation?"

"Every word."

"Good. I'll put as much distance between us as possible. You head back to the portal, and when Dean's on his feet, you complete this mission. You understand?"

"Dean will never forgive us," Jim protested, and Bobby sighed.

"Yeah, well, he's just gonna have to deal with it. And for whatever's it worth, tell him I'd do it all over again. For Sam."

Jim nodded. "If that's your wish."

 **SPN**

"Damn it, Bobby…" Dean grumbled, slowly blinking his eyes open. How long was he out? And just what was the big idea, attacking him like that?

Recovering his senses, he realized he was being half-dragged, half-carried through the woods by Caleb and Findley. They quickly noticed his animation, and eased him to the ground. Caleb's hand rested firmly on his shoulder as an expression of reassurance that Dean did not appreciate—if Caleb of all people thought he could use comfort, something was terribly wrong. "What happened?"

Lifting his head, Dean caught sight of Henriksen, Jim, Ellen and Rufus. None of them would meet his gaze, and Dean's confusion morphed into panic. "Where's Bobby!?" Receiving no response, he scrambled to his feet and turned in a frantic circle. Nothing but trees in every direction. "Where did he go?" He launched himself at Ellen, who was more likely to help him than the others. "WHERE DID HE GO!?"

"I'm sorry, Dean," she said in a quivering voice. "We couldn't have stopped him."

"What!?" Dean glared furiously at the other men. "You expect me to believe he can take all five of you? What the hell!?" It wasn't hard to figure out Bobby's plan. Sacrifice himself for the greater good; sidetrack Bianca while the rest of them made their escape. Under different circumstances, Dean might have done the same thing, but that didn't make it excusable. "We have to find him! Now!"

"He doesn't want to be found," Rufus objected, not without sympathy. "And if you know him at all, boy, you know he's not going to be found. Not in a forest; not when he's made up his mind. It's too late. All we can do now is find your brother."

Dean fumed, but the thought of Sam outweighed everything. He couldn't neglect the kid for anyone—not even for Bobby—and the realization made his stomach churn. "How am I supposed to live with myself?"

"It's not your fault," Jim said in sudden alarm. Sometimes Dean forgot how perceptive the pastor could be. "You're not responsible for any of this! Don't you shoulder that burden, you hear me? You didn't ask the Stynes to kidnap your brother. You are not to blame! Fact is, Bobby loves you boys, and he wants you to know he wouldn't have it any other way."

"He said he'd do it all over again, too," Ellen added.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

Before anyone could answer, they all caught movement from the corners of their eyes. Instinctively, they turned and raised their weapons, but the sight in front of them was like nothing they could have prepared for.

At first, Dean thought they were human. They certainly looked human, despite their vintage clothing. But then they bared their fangs, and Dean abruptly realized he was facing a pack of twenty vampires.

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… Satur** **day, October 31, 2005)**

Jacob did not leave Sam alone again for the rest of the day. After encouraging him to freshen up in the bathroom, they proceeded through the winding corridor and joined William in his study where they helped themselves to a fresh batch of tea. The elder Styne barely acknowledged them, too busy writing his toast for the wedding, but when Sam curled up on the floor next to the fireplace, he couldn't help but notice his captive's melancholy. It was even more pathetic than usual.

"What happened?" he asked quietly when Jacob ventured over to his desk.

The young man bristled indignantly. "Victor. Thought he'd throw himself his own private bachelor's party with _my_ little brother."

William almost laughed, which did nothing for Jacob's mood. "Is that all? Fascinating. Sometimes I forget how delicate and sensitive an ordinary human can be. No wonder he's so, so…" He waved his hand, searching for the word. "Distressed. He's much too tame for Victor's less conventional desires." Then, noticing Jacob's scowl, he added, "Oh, calm down! You do not have sole custody of the boy. He belongs to all of us, and if Victor wants to enjoy him, he is well within his rights. Besides, our job is to unleash his potential, not coddle him. Victor's methods might do him some good."

"Doubtful," Jacob replied, lowering his voice. Sam might be sitting on the other side of the room, staring at the fire, lost in his own thoughts, but he was still within hearing range. "We're almost there, Uncle William. We're reaching the point of no return. When Sam called out for help, he and I shared a psychic connection, and he wanted me. Me! Not Dean. He's becoming one of us, whether he realizes it or not, but we have to be more cautious now than ever. I also felt his fear, his despair. Breaking him is one thing, but shattering him? He might never reach his potential."

"Hmm…" William narrowed his eyes and carefully weighed Jacob's words. "Very well. I'll mention it to Caroline. But keep in mind, mother knows best, and if she favors Victor, you won't be able to protect the boy. Understand?"

Jacob clenched his fists, but what more could he say? "Yes sir."

 **SPN**

 **(Purgatory)**

The battle was long and onerous, but unusually cathartic. Dean had gone days now itching for something to kill, and while he had no more experience with vampires than he did with Purgatory—weren't they fictional?—he had good instincts. A part of him enjoyed the fray. They were heavily outnumbered, three to one, and while shots to the knees might slow the bastards down, they were reluctant to waste their ammo—they needed everything they had for the Stynes.

Consequently, they found themselves in close combat with a small army of rampaging predators who were thirsty for human blood. And if humans weren't meant for Purgatory, then God only knew how long it had been since their last taste. They were famished, they were desperate, and they were savage. Dean had no qualms about taking his anger out on their sorry asses.

Still, the odds weren't in his favor. The vampires were smart, and they managed to drive Dean away from his friends—the more distance they could put between their prey, the more isolated and vulnerable they'd become. Dean recognized their strategy, but couldn't do much about it. All too soon, he lost sight of the others, and could hear nothing but the grunts and growls of his four assailants.

Brandishing his machete, he aimed for their necks—decapitation was always a reliable hunting technique—and tried not to let his worry distract him from the matter at hand. The fight seemed to last forever, and he found himself wondering if they were going easy on him. After all, they might not want to kill him; they might want to preserve him. Tie him up and ration his blood so they could treat themselves for days or even weeks. The thought sickened him—especially when he realized he was running low on stamina.

Gritting his teeth, Dean kicked at a vampire. He swung at another. He was in the process of eluding the other two when he suddenly lost his balance and fell. The ground had dropped out from under him—another ravine—and it was all he could do not to stab himself. When he tumbled the rest of the way to the bottom, his head struck a tree root, and everything went dark.

 **SPN**

The vampires were waiting at the top of the ravine when he finally awoke. Night had fallen, and he could see their eyes glinting maliciously through the gloom. That was strange. What were they waiting for? Dean had been knocked out! They could have carried him off to their nest or den or whatever, no trouble at all. So what stopped them?

Groaning, he rubbed his head, sat up, and felt around for his machete. There! He briefly brooded on the others—were they okay?—and then focused back on his own predicament. He glanced up at the vampires. "Don't tell me you're afraid of heights!"

"You passed into Malka's territory," one replied nervously. "Trust me, you don't want to be over there. You're much safer with us."

Dean scoffed. "Right. Cause you blood-suckers are no worse than mosquitos? Please." After stretching his neck and shoulders, he climbed shakily to his feet and weighed his options. He had to find the others; they might need his help. And if he could catch up to Bobby and talk him out of dying, that would be a plus. Not to mention, he had to find his way back to the portal, reach the safe house, and rescue Sam. All in a day's work. But he couldn't do any of it if those vampires grabbed him, so he might as well take advantage of Malka—whatever Malka was. "All right, boys! It's been real! Catch you later!"

Turning, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and used the screen as a makeshift flashlight for his climb up the opposite slope. The vampires watched restlessly. "Come back! You don't know what you're getting into! We promise, we'll be gentle!" Dean ignored them.

At the top of the ravine, he began to hesitate. The woods were deep and dark. His eyes were adjusting, and a bright moon offered some assistance, but the vampires were right. He didn't know where he was going, or what might be out there. Malka? A monster that scared monsters? A wiser man would at least wait for morning.

But no. His friends needed him. His brother needed him. He couldn't afford to play it safe. Steeling himself, he ventured forward about thirty paces. He would circle back, giving the vampires a wide berth, and find the others. With any luck, they'd be okay.

Out of curiosity, he gave his phone a second glance. No signal. Of course not. What was he thinking? This was freaking Purgatory! If they made it out alive, he would have one hell of a story to tell his family. What would his dad say? Would he be proud? Impressed? Furious?

As Dean walked, he felt something soft and sleek brush against his face. Cobweb? It was a forest, after all. He absently swept it off and kept moving. But then he felt another, and another, and each time, the strands were thicker and more annoying. He paused, grumbling to himself, and used the phone's screen light to check his surroundings. It wasn't strong enough to expose anything but trees, and Dean took another tentative step forward.

His boot landed in a soft, squishy cushion. "Ugh!" He stopped short, grimacing. What the hell was that? It wasn't his first hike in a forest, and the possibilities were disgusting. He immediately pulled back his leg, but like a freakish wad of gum, the elastic material stuck to his foot before yanking it down. He froze, heart pounding. That wasn't a good sign. Malka? What the hell was Malka?

Crouching down, he lifted his foot—struggling against the strange pull of the material—and used the machete to cut himself loose. It took longer than expected; the gunk—or whatever it was—clung to the blade as stubbornly as it clung to Dean's boot. When he finally severed the material, the sudden snap propelled him backwards and he lost his grip on the machete while landing squarely on his rear. He would have toppled over, but some kind of silky mesh broke his fall.

"Damn…" He felt the material sway under him, like a curtain. Or a net. The thought made his skin crawl. What the hell was going on?

It took three tries to stand up—the material was all over his clothes and apparently determined to hold him back. As soon as he tore free, he hastened to collect his machete, but it was stuck in the same goo that previously snared his foot. He could struggle to retrieve it, or he could get the hell out of here as fast as possible.

Cursing, he abandoned his blade and proceeded through the woods. Much to his chagrin, he gradually noticed the light from the moon and his phone reflecting off huge sheets of cottony webs. They were all over the place, covering trees, blanketing the ground, waiting for dupes like Dean to blunder into them. Son of a bitch!

" _This place is the afterlife for vampires, wraiths, sirens, rugarus, kitsunes, and monsters you can't even imagine."_

Malka must be a spider. A giant, supernatural Shelob.

First vampires, now this?

It was almost inevitable when he walked straight into another inconspicuous mesh. It tickled his face, and he reflexively reached up to brush it off, just like before. That was stupid. Strands of powerful silk caught his wrists and forearms, and this time, they were too sticky and secure to easily escape. Dean stepped back, tugging his arms down, but the more he fought, the more tangled they became.

" _Stop squirming, you idjit!"_

He could practically hear Bobby's voice in his head. Malka was a spider; it would feel its web vibrating. The more he fought, the faster it would come to investigate.

But if he couldn't fight, what the hell was he supposed to do?

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _I'm sorry! I couldn't help myself! On the show, Dean spent a year in Purgatory, which Bobby describes as "the backside of your worst nightmares." But none of the monsters were really all that intimidating, at least not in my opinion. I had to throw in something nightmarish, and what better than a giant spider!? :-p_

 _ **Please Review!**_


	25. The Big Day

**SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… Sun** **day, November 1, 2005)**

Paige Fontaine did not consider herself a victim. She had known when she married Arthur that his allegiance would always be first and foremost to the Stynes. They were both originally from Shreveport; they traveled in the same circles and enjoyed the same luxuries. When Arthur followed in his father's footsteps to become the Stynes' attorney, Paige knew it meant a lifetime of servitude—no one ever left the family's employment—but it also meant a lifetime of wealth and status. She could have chosen a different path, but she didn't, and now she had to suffer the consequences.

Caroline Styne was a monster. Well, so were the rest of them, with their harvests, and their zombies, and their magic. Paige had an English professor in college who described Dr. Frankenstein as an irresponsible false god—if only he knew!—and every time she had to genuflect herself to them, a piece of her died. But she was not a victim. She chose this.

Caroline, however, was in a league of her own when it came to cruelty and wickedness. The way she treated her own daughter—not to mention Sam and Jessica—was utterly deplorable, and Paige wanted nothing to do with it. If only she was braver… Perhaps she could have helped them. But as a wise man said, "If you can't help them, at least don't hurt them."

Paige couldn't help anyone. She was just a normal human, past her prime, with no means of defending herself. Her husband was a greedy, power-hungry sycophant who cared more about the Stynes' opinion than he did about her happiness. But thus far, at the very least, she had done nothing to hurt anyone, and was therefore able to sleep at night. Until now.

The day of the wedding had finally arrived, and witches from the Coven were rolling in as contracted to perform any number of essential duties. Florists were in every room, displaying remarkable arrangements of red and black variegated roses—the archways in the grand foyer were dramatic and beautiful. Decorators were on hand to complement the flowers with levitating candles, ceiling tulle, and other expensive embellishments. Musicians were spacing themselves out to warm up their instruments, and a dozen chefs went straight to work in the kitchen. Thanks to Caroline's thorough and detailed planning, the chaos was controlled, and the atmosphere was festive. No one seemed to share Paige's anxiety.

"Arthur!" she called when she managed to track him down to the assembly room where he would be officiating the ceremony. He stood chatting with Olivette, the high priestess, while their servants dexterously set up countless rows of chairs. "May I speak with you?" She pulled him away from Olivette, and when they found a discreet corner, she whispered, "Do you know what Caroline asked of me?"

His eyes softened, and he gave her hands a reassuring squeeze. "I do, and it's a great privilege. Once in a lifetime. They are pleased with your service, and I could not be prouder."

Paige had been raised in the art of social graces, which was the only reason she could maintain a suitably reverential attitude under these circumstances. "I'm worried. I don't have the confidence…" Or the inclination.

Arthur pulled her into his arms. "You have nothing to fear, my love. Caroline trusts you, and I know you'll meet her expectations. You always do."

 **SPN**

From the privacy of their suite in the Four Seasons, Bela Talbot carefully inspected her work. Thanks to the magic of movie make-up, facial prosthetics, contacts, and shrewd hairstyling, the man across from her bore no resemblance whatsoever to John Winchester. Not even his own children would recognize him. "Incredible. I may have outdone myself. How do you feel?"

He glanced uncertainly at his reflection in the wall mirror. "Like Mr. T minus the mohawk."

"Would you like a mohawk?"

"Hell no."

"Good," Bela said, smiling. "The whole idea is to blend in." They were both dressed in formal evening wear. He had a double-breasted suit with peak lapels, a solid tie, and black Oxfords. She had a dark green column gown with a single strap over her left shoulder and diamonds on her wrists and neck. As long as they behaved themselves, they were sufficiently fashionable without making too bold a statement, and no one would pay them much attention.

"Here," she said, handing him two small mojo bags and an antique compass. "Just so we're clear, I'm going to need these returned as soon as possible. The bags ward off evil and should protect you and your son from witchcraft. The compass will lead you straight to him. At that point, you're on your own. Don't forget, I have my own agenda, and if you end up in trouble, I won't save you."

"Of course not," he replied, expecting no less. But then he frowned, regarding her gifts in perplexity. "Bela, what do you hope to find in that house that's worth more than these?"

"Good question," she said secretively. "You'll just have to wait and see. The wedding starts at eight-thirty tonight. Guests will be arriving as early as seven. We'll shoot for seven-forty-five; that will be the most inconspicuous. In the meantime, there will be dancing at the reception, and it might be prudent to cover the basics, just in case."

John rolled his eyes. "I know how to dance, Bela."

"Why don't I be the judge of that?"

 **SPN**

As more and more witches entered the safe house, Sam's mind and body became increasingly sensitive and overwhelmed. Jacob promised to give him a crystal later in the evening to help 'manage the noise,' but he would never learn to filter out extraneous psychic input if he didn't give his brain opportunities to adapt. The trick was to stay calm.

Unfortunately, Sam was beleaguered with thoughts of Jessica's impending death—if his nightmares really were premonitions, then Elizabeth would stab her in the next few hours, while wearing her wedding gown. He couldn't let that happen! But his head was throbbing with the excitement and sadism, laughter and hatred, respect and contempt, agitation and energy, fear, desire, intoxication, and all the other emotions exuding from their contractors. How much worse would it be when their guests arrived? Sam could barely see straight, much less remain calm.

Doubled over in a chair with his face buried in his arms, he didn't notice Jacob stride into the dressing room until he felt a hand on his shoulder—the sudden contact made him wince, and he nearly retched on the floor. "Jacob?"

His would-be brother crouched down in front of him with a look of concern. "How you holding up, Sam?"

"There's no way I'm getting through the ceremony," he weakly replied. "I'm going to pass out."

"No you're not," Jacob said with gentle firmness while affectionately stroking Sam's hair. "I've been talking with Olivette, high priestess of the Grand Coven. She owed me a favor, and she was more than willing to pay up. Here." He showed Sam two matching bracelets made from woven leather with silver trinkets braided into them. "These charms are magically linked, so whoever possesses them are likewise linked. I might not be able to shelter you from the noise, little brother, but I can bear some of the pain, and lend you my strength."

Sam wasn't sure whether he should accept such help, but Jacob didn't wait for his consent. He promptly extracted Sam's left arm and pushed up his sleeve. After petting his tattoo, he fastened the first bracelet around his wrist. Sam sighed, staring at the floor, while Jacob proceeded to tie the second bracelet around his own, with the aid of his teeth.

The physiological relief was instantaneous. It didn't reduce the disorienting swirl of countless sensations, but it settled Sam's stomach and tempered his migraine. At the same time, it had the opposite effect on Jacob, who grimaced from the startling intensity of Sam's suffering. "Damn, that stings. You must be tougher than people realize, kiddo, to endure all this."

"Thank you," Sam whispered.

Jacob patted his knee. "Anything for you. Just don't tell our aunt. I doubt she'd approve." Standing back up, Jacob rubbed his head, blinked twice, and shuddered. A moment later, his enhanced body adapted to the pain, and he smiled. "It's going to be a long day, Sammy. Keep your head down, and stay close to me."

 **SPN**

 **(Purgatory)**

The sun had risen, but the forest remained bleak and sinister. After hours of slowly and methodically scraping the silky threads from his hands to his sleeves—at the expense of his skin—Dean managed to get most of the crap stuck to his clothes, which allowed him to slide out of his top layer and escape—at least for the moment. He still had to make it out of Malka's territory without further entanglements, and given the number of webs surrounding him, that was easier said than done. But on the bright side, it wasn't night anymore. He could see again.

Breathing heavily, Dean took a moment to collect himself and glanced at his red, blistered hands. They were definitely tender, but he couldn't complain. Considering the spider's prolonged absence, he was getting off lucky, and his skin would heal. Now, he had to focus on finding the others and making up for lost time. _I'm coming, Sammy!_

"You know, most humans would have panicked at the sight of these webs," a voice to his left casually observed. Dean tensed, turning to face the rogue reaper as she admired an intricate mesh of silk draping two separate trees. "And in their panic, they would carelessly trip or crash into one, get all tangled up, and thoroughly exhaust themselves. But not you. I believe that's why Malka spared you. She has learned not to underestimate the inhabitants of Purgatory, and since you treated her trap as an inconvenience more than a death sentence, she doesn't know if you're worth the effort. Personally, I think you are." She smiled in approval.

"Where's Bobby?" Dean growled. "Did you kill him?"

"Now why would you assume that?" Bianca asked with a hurt expression. "I might be a reaper, Dean, but I'm not a murderer. I'm not going to kill your friend. True, I can't let him leave this place alive, but that's different. "

"The hell it is!" He brazenly loomed over her. "So what, you stand back and watch some monster do your dirty work for you? That makes you just as guilty!"

She shrugged, apathetic. "I suppose that depends on your perspective. But the fact is, Mr. Singer not only conjured but enslaved a spirit against its will, overstepping his bounds as a human, and I won't tolerate it. I'm sorry, Dean, but this is justice, and if he is consumed by a leviathan, he has no one to blame but himself."

He glowered at her, furious, but powerless. He couldn't exactly shoot her—weapons were useless against reapers. "Just so you know, I will kill myself before I let the Stynes sacrifice me in their damn ritual. If it's my soul you want, you're not getting it."

She laughed. "You're under my protection, Dean. You could try offing yourself, but I won't let any reaper close enough to take you. And trust me, you don't want to spend whatever time you have left suffering the consequences of a failed suicide attempt. Do yourself a favor, and accept your fate." She raised her hand as if to brush his cheek, and he fell back a step, suddenly conscious of his vulnerability. Surrounded by spider webs, running would be a mistake. He was at her mercy, and she was far from merciful.

But then, a new voice caught their attention. "Bianca! What the hell?"

Dean hesitated long enough to spot the bitch's alarm before tracking the voice to find Jim Murphy standing with a short, indignant brunette. Another reaper? She had deep, no-nonsense eyes, full lips, and crossed arms. "I couldn't believe it when he told me, but it's true. You're the Stynes' reaper? This whole time?"

"Tessa!" Bianca feigned pleasure at the sight of her colleague. "Just hear me out; it's not as bad as you think."

"No?" Tessa scoffed. "Cause I think it's pretty damn awful."

Dean's gaze shifted from the women over to the pastor. Something wasn't right. How did Jim manage to summon a second reaper? It shouldn't be possible. Unless… No… When Jim returned his gaze, the sorrow on his face spoke volumes. He carried no weapons; he carried no talismans; his shirt was soaked in blood. Before Dean could fully process the implications, tears welled up in his eyes.

"That boy is a legacy!" Bianca exclaimed. "Do you have any idea what a properly cooked legacy tastes like? Take it from me, Tess, you have to try one before they go extinct."

"I would, but then again, I'm a reaper, not a monster. No wonder you spend so much time in Purgatory; you must feel at home among your own kind!"

Bianca flushed and barely contained a shriek of outrage. "You think you're so much better than the rest of us! The boss' favorite! Well, guess what? He's not here anymore!"

"What difference does that make?" Tessa rejoined. "We can still do our jobs! Properly!"

Under normal circumstances, Dean would find two gorgeous and combative women a major turn-on, but these were reapers! Jim was either dead or dying, Sam was a prisoner, Bobby was running for his life, and the others could be up to their eyeballs in crap. Dean's chest tightened, and at that moment, he'd give anything for his dad to be there with him.

"You're not going to get away with this," Tessa said ominously.

Bianca tilted her head. "And you think you can stop me?"

"Let's find out."

The next thing Dean knew, Bianca and Tessa were stalking towards each other. They began scuffling, but before either gained the upper hand, they both disappeared in a burst of silver light. Dean flinched, temporarily blinded, and when the dust settled, he was alone with Pastor Jim.

Neither said a word. They just stared at each other—Jim in regret, Dean in shock. How did it come to this?

A heartbeat later, Jim's spirit blinked out of existence, and Dean was on his own.

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… Sun** **day, November 1, 2005)**

Sitting at her vanity table, Elizabeth viewed her reflection in contempt. She always considered herself beautiful—she had all the standard features—golden curls, azure eyes, a doll face, ideal proportions… She was the quintessential southern belle, and she knew women who would sell their souls to resemble her. But they didn't know what it cost. If it meant escaping Victor, Elizabeth would happily spend the rest of her life as hideous as a crone. Thomas wouldn't mind—he might even love her more for it, considering his own appearance.

Oh, Thomas. Where was he now? Would she ever see him again?

It was nearing the hour of her nuptials, but Elizabeth remained in her baby blue tea-length dress. She would be damned before she willingly donned a wedding gown. How could her family expect her to cooperate? She had nothing left to lose and could not be coerced. William would have to drag her kicking and screaming to the altar, and how would that look to their guests? The Stynes would be disgraced, and Elizabeth would finally have satisfaction. And then she would kill herself. Before Victor could touch her. She would die without the promise of reincarnation, and if Thomas still lived—being immortal—they would be separated for eternity.

It wasn't fair, and the thought made her sick, but she would not falter. Better to die quickly and faithfully than to languish for a lifetime as her cousin's bitch. "I know you can't hear me, Thomas," she whispered to herself. "But I love you. Please don't forget me."

Eventually, her bedroom door opened and Caroline stepped inside. Elizabeth saw her reflection in the mirror, but offered no acknowledgment. She had nothing to say to the wretched woman.

"I know you're upset," Caroline said gently, easing the door shut behind her. She crossed over to the vanity and stood at Elizabeth's side. "I wish things were different, my dear. I only want the best for you, and in the long run…"

"Oh, spare me," Elizabeth sighed. "We're Stynes, mother. You don't care about me. Only the family's reputation. Compared to that, I'm expendable, aren't I?"

Caroline took a vintage comb from the table and tenderly brushed her daughter's hair. "I am not entirely without affection for you. Please understand, discipline is part of good parenting. That's why we're so hard on you." As she spoke, her reflection seemed to ripple, slowly changing from Mary Winchester back to her true form.

The original Caroline Styne had auburn hair, upturned eyes, and a round face—deceptively gentle. Caught off guard, Elizabeth's aching heart filled with longing, and she blinked back tears, like a child desperate for a mother's protection. And yet, at the same time, she knew better than to trust this mistress of manipulation. "Mama?"

"It's your wedding night," Caroline said graciously. "You deserve to see the mother you remember. If only you loved her as you once did, this would be so much easier."

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth whispered. "But I can't marry Victor. I won't. I refuse."

Caroline squeezed her shoulder. "I know. You've made yourself quite clear on the subject, and we can't risk you embarrassing us in front of our guests. So if you won't behave yourself, we have no choice. You will remain here for the evening, and no one will be the wiser."

Confused, Elizabeth furrowed her brow. "What—?" She couldn't believe her mother would be so lenient, and sure enough, at that moment, Caroline abruptly transformed into her daughter. Elizabeth blanched; they looked exactly alike, as if they were twins. "No," she said in dawning realization. "You can't!"

"Oh, I can," Caroline replied. "Paige will be filling in for me, so if all goes well, no one will even notice. As far as the world is concerned, you will be wed by the end of the night. And in the morning, your husband will come to claim you. There's nothing you can do to stop it."

Out of all the emotions Elizabeth could have felt at such a scheme—anger, bitterness, hatred—she found herself weighed down with dread. "Oh my God… It wasn't me in Sam's premonitions. I told him I wouldn't betray him; I have no reason to. But you! You're the one! You're going to murder his girlfriend!"

Caroline shrugged. "If it comes to that. I must admit, I'm not particularly fond of Little Miss Jessica, but we'll just have to wait and see."

Elizabeth jumped to her feet, but before she could do anything, Caroline waved her hand and telekinetically sent her careening to the floor.

"Uh, uh, uh," she objected playfully. "Don't tell me you've come to care for someone other than yourself?"

Groaning, Elizabeth pushed herself up to her hands and knees. She met her doppelganger's gaze and scowled. "It's bad enough you're sacrificing me to a fate worse than death. Must you also frame me for a crime I won't commit?"

"It would be a strategic victory," Caroline said. "It would permanently sever any allegiance you and Sam might foster. It would obviously devastate him, and he might even seek his mother's comfort. I see nothing wrong with it."

"I hate you!"

"Oh, my dear. Tell me something I don't know." Pleased with her new identity, Caroline made her way over to the bedroom door. "Now if you'd kindly excuse me, I have to get in character. It's almost time, and everyone must believe I'm really you. Wish me luck."

"Break a leg, you bitch!"

Caroline laughed. "Sleep well, my pet. Once you're married, I doubt your husband will give you much rest." Before Elizabeth could respond, Caroline waved her hand a second time. "Dormite."

And everything went dark.

 **SPN**

 _ **I need more reviews! Please don't deprive me! :-p**_


	26. The Wedding

_**Author's Note:**_ _I seriously debated over how much detail I wanted to put in this chapter. I was tempted to rush through it, but restrained myself, so I hope it meets your satisfaction! :-) Let me know!_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia** **… Sun** **day, November 1, 2005)**

"How many people do you think are out there?" Sam asked from the shelter of the groom's dressing room as he, Jacob and Victor finished getting ready. It was almost eight o' clock, and with countless voices and emotions vying for his attention, he felt overwhelmed even with the support of his brother's magical bracelet. According to William, the whole point of the wedding was to illustrate the Styne dynasty's renewal after a brief period of misfortune, and it seemed they invited every malefactor in the supernatural community to witness the event.

How many of them knew about Sam? How many would gladly tear him to shreds? He was a hunter, after all. And what about Azazel? Sam tried psychically searching for his presence, but in such a crowd, it was impossible to distinguish one villain from another.

"I believe we sent out six hundred and seventy-five invitations," Jacob said, fingering the boutonnieres on the credenza. They were all basically the same—dark, velvety roses with seeded eucalyptus—though one had extra frills. Selecting it, Jacob walked over to Victor and pinned it to his lapel. Sam didn't need special abilities to sense the tension between them—they were still upset with each other, and if it weren't for all their guests downstairs, they might have picked up where they left off in Sam's room yesterday.

To make things even worse, Victor kept looking at him when Jacob's back was turned, and Sam couldn't mistake his expression. He was officially the one who got away, and Victor was determined to try again. It was only a matter of time—Jacob couldn't protect Sam forever. And knowing Victor, when he finally made his next move, his savagery would be far more intense due to the wait.

It would happen. Sam could feel the bastard's certainty, and he had no reason to doubt it. The prospect terrified him.

A knock on their door interrupted their preparations, and they all turned to watch a petite brunette stick her head in the room. She was about Jacob's age and she smiled at the sight of him. "Well, there you are!"

"Daisy!" Jacob was clearly pleased to see her, and he welcomed her with a brotherly embrace. "How long has it been?"

"Over a year, obviously," she said, with a southern drawl of her own. She wore a blue knee-length dress with silver strap heels and rhinestones in her hair—just like Jessica in Sam's nightmares, down to the very last detail. "Honestly, Jacob, what took you so long?" She must have been referring to his escape from prison, and he smiled coyly.

"That, my dear, is a story for another time. Come! I believe introductions are in order." He led her over to his cousin. "Victor, allow me to present Ms. Daisy Parson, Executive Assistant to Sheriff Treadwell out in Shreveport. She's a bridesmaid this evening. Daisy, meet the man himself. Dr. Victor Frankenstein, Lilibet's fiancé."

"It's an honor," Daisy said as Victor customarily brought her hand to his lips. Next, they proceeded to Sam, who couldn't hide his dismay. The woman's outfit was like a visual confirmation that Jessica would die in the next few hours, and a hint of inevitability brought tears to his eyes.

"Sam?" Jacob asked in concern. "Are you all right?"

Glancing at the floor, Sam shook his head.

"Sam?" Daisy asked in recognition. "You mean the Winchester boy?"

"Not anymore," Jacob replied patiently. "Sam Styne. He's one of us now." Sam caught his breath as Jacob reached up to stroke his hair, and Victor seethed at the intimacy of it. "Talk to me, little brother. What's wrong?"

Before he could stop himself, he gestured at Daisy. "She's wearing the same clothes that Jessica wore in my nightmares. The premonition's coming true, Jacob. Elizabeth's going to murder her out in the courtyard by the end of the reception." Why he felt the need to tell Jacob, Sam had no idea. It's not like his brother—would-be brother—gave a damn about Jessica.

For a long, drawn-out moment, no one said a word. Daisy was too confused, Victor was too intrigued, and as for Jacob… He was savoring Sam's confession. But then, he glanced at his cousin and got down to business. "Victor, unless I'm mistaken, we don't intend to let your bride run rampant this evening, which means something is about to happen that will compromise Aunt Caroline's control of the situation. Now what do you make of that?"

"I suppose we could tighten security," Victor said smugly. "And I could post some of my creatures out in the courtyard to apprehend the girls before any blood is shed, but first, I'll need Sammy to make it worth my while." He licked his lips suggestively, sending a chill down Sam's spine. Jacob's face darkened angrily.

"No." He marched over to the credenza where he picked up another boutonniere to pin to his own lapel, evidently putting the matter behind him. Sam felt a wave of desperation, and he glanced from Jacob to Victor and back again. If it meant rescuing Jessica, he could suffer anything.

"Jacob, it's all right. I don't mind—!"

"I mind!" Jacob snapped. He grabbed the remaining boutonniere and bore down on Sam with a dominating demeanor. "You listen to me, little brother, cause I hate repeating myself. You are _mine_." Sam clenched his eyes shut, trembling, as Jacob fastened the rose in place. "No one is taking you from me—not even that demon—and I will be damned before I let Victor touch you. So forget it! If you want to prevent Jessica's death, then I suggest you concentrate on supporting our aunt. That way, Lilibet won't have the freedom to hurt anyone. Do you understand?"

A tear slid down Sam's cheek. "Yes sir."

 **SPN**

To prevent the residents of Buckhead from noticing the steady flow of traffic that disappeared off Monarch Avenue, witches from the Grand Coven imposed misdirection spells throughout the neighborhood. So unless an individual had access to a wedding invitation, a temporary smokescreen would cloud the mind with various distractions and forestall unwanted attention.

A guard stood outside the portal, tracking guests as they arrived. When Bela claimed to be Lucy Westenra with her date, Quincey Morris—characters from _Dracula_ —he didn't question it, but made a note on his clipboard and let them in. Apparently, the Stynes had a flexible admittance policy, and John wondered what other security measures were in place. He had no doubt that leaving would be a greater challenge.

"As I said," Bela gloated when they parked outside the enormous château. "Nothing to worry about." John grunted, staring at the Stynes' safe house in fascination. It was like a French castle, four stories tall with evenly spaced turrets and a whimsical roof line. Lit up in the night, its beauty surpassed expectations, and John had to remind himself it was not a tranquil paradise. It was a gilded cage.

Climbing out of Bela's Mercedes, they followed the crowd up to the main entrance and made their way inside a breathtaking foyer, decorated primarily with roses. Since it wasn't yet time for the ceremony, hundreds of men and women—plus a few humanoid monsters—were mingling happily while scattered violinists maintained a romantic atmosphere. John found the whole situation surreal. He was not accustomed to such wealth, and as a hunter, his instincts were to kill everything in sight. He was behind enemy lines, and he wondered if his disguise would mask his loathing.

As subtly as he could, John pulled Bela's compass from his pocket. She claimed it would guide him to Sam, and he was anxious to get his child as far from this place as possible. But as he carefully regarded the magical implement, his accomplice brushed up against his side.

"Not yet," she advised. "Wait for the reception, when the Stynes are all accounted for. Just because they won't recognize you doesn't mean you want to stumble across one in a restricted part of the house."

She had a point, as much as John hated to admit it. "I bet you're loving this."

Bela smiled. "It's a dream come true."

 **SPN**

The ceremony began right on time in a massive assembly room—the Stynes were nothing if not punctual. As the violinists performed the prelude, a side door opened and the officiant, Arthur Fontaine—John recognized him as the defense attorney from the televised trial—led Victor Frankenstein and his two groomsmen to the altar. John started in astonishment. The first was Jacob Styne, and the second was Sammy. "Oh my God," he whispered under his breath, and Bela reached over to clutch his knee, discouraging further expletives.

What the hell was Sam doing in the bridal party? But then, on second thought, John realized it made sense. The sons of bitches were attempting to integrate him into their family, and they had Jessica to ensure his cooperation. Sick bastards. They were probably getting off on it, too. John's heart sank at the dazed expression on his boy's face. Sam wasn't just uncomfortable in the spotlight, he was disoriented.

And if that wasn't bad enough, he only raised his downcast eyes to glance at Jacob with an all-too-familiar look. It wasn't precisely the look he reserved for Dean when he was frightened, in need of his brother's reassurance, but it was close enough to make John nervous. Sam had spent over a week in the Stynes' captivity. Was he now developing Stockholm syndrome? Damn it!

With Bela's hand resting firmly on his leg, John fought the urge to launch himself at his adversaries, and rather watched in silent fury as the processional began. Of course, his foul mood only worsened when he noticed the mother-of-the-bride walking down the aisle. He recognized her instantly. Beautiful. Fair. Elegant. Strong. She was the love of his life, the mother of his children, the reason he persevered through all his trials.

In that moment, John remembered his conversation with Ellen on Friday night. _"I was on patrol with Agents Paulson and Hale. Jess was down in the bar with Agent Burckle. She said she noticed someone watching her, but Burckle had no idea what she was talking about. He didn't see anyone. John_ _… she claimed it was Mary. Your wife."_

So Elizabeth Styne's mother was masquerading as Mary Winchester. Again, no doubt to help integrate Sam into their family. No wonder the kid was off his game. He might have been a baby when his mom died, but he had seen plenty of pictures growing up—and John had a horrible sinking feeling that he would never look at those pictures the same way again. The Stynes had tarnished them with their cruelty, and words could not express the extent of John's outrage. He would make every last one of them pay for this!

After the mother-of-the-bride came the bridesmaids. First, a brunette in her thirties named Daisy Parson. She had served as a character witness for the defense during Jacob's trial last year, and according to Dean, she was every bit as corrupt as the Shreveport sheriff. Trailing behind her reluctantly was Jessica Moore, Sammy's girlfriend. John noticed how her expression shifted between fear and frustration—she was a helpless pawn in the fight to conquer Sam, and she knew it.

With everyone in position, the violinists began the _Trumpet Voluntary_ , which John found ironic, and the guests rose in anticipation of the bride. Turning, they watched her appear at the back of the room, leaning on her father's arm. She wore an exquisite princess gown with a fitted bodice and capped sleeves—her diamond tiara made Bela coo—but the tears in her eyes were definitely not of joy.

John didn't personally know Elizabeth Styne, but he knew her history quite well. She had lived during the nineteenth century, and despite her betrothal to Dr. Frankenstein, she had fallen in love with another man—the alchemist, Dr. Thomas Benton. They tried eloping, but her family tracked her down and killed her as punishment for running away. They spared Doc Benton simply to condemn him to a long and lonely life with the knowledge that he would die a wretched old man while Elizabeth would one day be reborn. They would never see each other again.

Of course, Doc Benton took their disdain as a challenge and used his alchemy to gain eternal life. He would spend the next two hundred years waiting faithfully for his beloved's reincarnation, and John understood all too well the anguish that sustained him. When Mary died in that fire… Well, if it hadn't been for Sam and Dean, John might have succumbed to his hatred. In his quest for vengeance, he might have lost his way, becoming no better than the monsters he hunted. Just like Doc Benton. In many respects, they were quite similar.

But where was Doc Benton now? John couldn't say, and judging from Elizabeth's defeated posture, he wasn't coming to rescue her. That was too bad. The hunter and the alchemist were natural enemies, but against the Stynes, they worked well together. John could have used his assistance.

Once Elizabeth and her father reached the altar, the guests took their seats, and Arthur Fontaine began a lengthy sermon about a new era for the Styne dynasty. It was very sinister and made subtle references to an upcoming calamity that John would have ignored if he didn't see his son's tension. The demon had plans for Sammy, and the Stynes were in on them.

After about forty minutes of that, the bride's father gave her away to Dr. Frankenstein, and the vows were promptly exchanged.

"I, Victor, take thee, Elizabeth, as my lawfully wedded wife… to have and to hold… in this life and the next… for all the days to come."

Elizabeth shuddered, and John half expected her to scream, or bolt, or something, but she didn't. Like Sam and Jessica, she was here against her will, and if escape was an option, she would have taken it by now. She was trapped in every sense of the word.

"I, Elizabeth, take thee, Victor, as my lawfully wedded husband… to love and obey… in this life and the next… for all the days to come."

Her voice lacked sincerity, but no one seemed to care—their guests weren't exactly good Samaritans. Many of them were sadistic enough to enjoy her distress, and they envied Frankenstein's power and control over her. In all probability, they were likewise amused by Sam and Jessica's submission. The two prisoners were obviously miserable, but they behaved themselves because the Stynes required it. And who could resist the Stynes?

Silently, Fontaine supplied the groom with an ornate, ceremonial knife. He took it, snatched Elizabeth's wrist, and sliced open her palm. She whimpered—and Jessica gasped—as Frankenstein brought the bloody hand to his mouth and drank his fill. Meanwhile, John clenched his jaw and glanced at Sam—the kid was rubbing the side of his head as if in pain, and Jacob was clutching his other arm supportively. What the hell?

After returning the knife to Fontaine, who placed it on the altar, Frankenstein beckoned for Jacob to produce the wedding ring. A look of alarm crossed Sam's face, and as Jacob complied, fishing around in his pocket for the velvet box, the kid frantically scanned the room, searching for someone. Who? John leaned forward, watching intently. At this point, why would a piece of jewelry, of all things, be cause for concern?

Jacob delivered the ring to Frankenstein, who proceeded to slip it onto Elizabeth's finger. Stepping back, the best man noticed Sam's agitation and frowned at him questioningly. Sam leaned towards him and whispered in his ear. Whatever he said made Jacob sigh, and he whispered a short response that drained the blood from Sam's face.

John found himself staring at Bela, as if she could provide an explanation for this strange development, and to his amazement, she did.

"Oh, Sam's wondering what happened to Cyrus," she said under her breath. "He was supposed to be the ring bearer this evening, but apparently he's in time out."

John squinted at her. "How do you—?"

"I read lips."

Figures. "Who's Cyrus?"

"Jacob's seven-year-old brother." Naturally, she would have done her homework before attempting to rob the family.

John took a deep, calming breath. So… Sammy was bonding with his captors, and he was preoccupied with the well-being of some evil pipsqueak. At this rate, rescuing him would be the easy part. Helping him through the aftermath would be a far more difficult task. But they would cross that bridge later. First thing's first. John had to get him and Jessica out of danger; then they could address any psychological ramifications. In the meantime, John prayed to God that Sam would trust him and, for once in his life, follow his lead.

It was Elizabeth's turn to present a wedding ring. She glanced at her maid of honor—Jessica—who was apparently hiding the velvet box with her rose bouquet, and beckoned with her bloody hand. Jessica hesitated, obviously opposed to the idea. And who could blame her? After all, Frankenstein wasn't volunteering to slit his own palm. This whole ceremony was a barbaric atrocity meant to torment the young bride and gratify her oppressors. Despite everything, Jessica pitied Elizabeth, and would help her if she could.

Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. Against her better judgment, Jessica stepped forward and supplied the ring. Elizabeth took it and submissively slid it on Frankenstein's finger. The twisted smile on his face made John scowl. God, he abhorred these people.

Fontaine raised his arms in benediction. "I now declare thee man and wife! May thy union be illustrious and everlasting, to the honor and perpetual glory of thy kin!" He nodded at Frankenstein. "You may claim your bride."

Instead of kissing her, the bastard grabbed her by the neck and squeezed. She would have yelped, but no sound could escape her throat. Caught off guard, Sam reflexively rushed forward, but Jacob was quick to stop him, dragging him back, and John nearly erupted. How dare he touch his son like that!?

With just one arm, Frankenstein lifted Elizabeth off her feet. He dangled her in the air like a trophy and faced the crowd in triumph. They cheered for him, laughing, applauding, whistling, catcalling. To them, this was the wedding's natural culmination. To Sam, it was a perverse nightmare, and he grappled pathetically against Jacob with horror in his eyes. As for Jacob, he restrained the kid with gentle firmness while whispering tenderly in his ear.

John could have asked Bela to interpret, but quickly thought better of it. If he knew what the scumbag was saying, he wouldn't be able to control his temper, and at that moment, he couldn't afford such recklessness. If he blew his cover prematurely, it would spell disaster, and he couldn't help Sammy if he was dead.

"I'm going to kill them," he nevertheless growled. "I'm going to kill every last one of them, if it's the last thing I do."

Bela glanced at him steadily. "You know what? I forgot how much I detest these wankers. So how can I be of assistance?"

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	27. Interception

_**Author's Note:**_ _This chapter was a beating to write, but I hope it's worth the wait! I know where I want to go with this story, but getting there is hard, so I appreciate everyone's encouragement. Your reviews mean the world to me!_

 **SPN**

As the bridal party took their positions outside the assembly room for a long and tedious receiving line, Sam's thoughts turned to Cyrus. Jacob said he was in a time out, but didn't explain why. What could the boy possibly have done to warrant his exclusion from such an important event? Missing dinner was one thing, but the whole damn wedding? It didn't make any sense! And how exactly were the Stynes punishing him? By locking him up somewhere? Or by hurting him? (Sam distinctly remembered Caroline flogging Elizabeth out in the courtyard last week.)

It was bad enough he had to worry about Jessica's safety, but now Cyrus too? This anxiety was as stifling as the psychic noise reverberating in his mind, and he found himself backed up to the wall, leaning against a credenza for support. Thankfully, most of the guests skipped over him, proceeding from William and Caroline to Arthur, to Jacob and Daisy, straight to Victor and Elizabeth.

"Sam?" Jessica took that opportunity to check on him. Since the Stynes kept them separated, they hadn't been permitted to speak to each other in two days, and she was more frightened for him than she was for herself. She didn't comprehend the danger she was in, but she knew Sam wasn't coping well, and that was all she could think about. Despite everything, she still loved him—a realization that brought Sam no comfort. She might die in the next few hours, and it would all be his fault. He didn't deserve her love; he deserved her resent.

"Jess, listen to me very carefully," he whispered, grasping her hand. He felt her clear blue eyes watching him, but couldn't bear to meet her gaze. "Whatever happens tonight, don't go outside. Promise me you won't go outside."

She frowned. "Why not?" At Sam's hesitation, she tacked on, "Because you're psychic, and you had a premonition of my death?" He shuddered, clenching his jaw, but didn't deny it, and Jessica made a pained expression. "No, you listen to me! We're getting out of here. I don't care what it takes, but you have to believe the Stynes aren't going to win. You have to believe that."

Sam wasn't sure he could. His captors were using his abilities against him—while they were thoroughly blocking their thoughts, they were not guarding their emotions, and they frequently harassed him with their confident attitudes. It wasn't just discouraging; it was persuasive. They believed in their supremacy, and each time he felt their belief, a part of him shared it. He was losing this fight, and couldn't do anything about it.

"Sam, please!" Jessica insisted. "Don't give up on me!"

He didn't want to, but he was overwhelmed. He tried improvising some form of reassurance, but the words eluded him—and then he was distracted by an oncoming guest. The guy was huge—Sam's height, but with an extra forty pounds—all muscle. He had a square jaw; his brown hair was receding; and his eyes… His eyes were yellow.

Sam braced himself, shoving Jessica behind him, as the demon smiled. "Well, well, well. What do we have here? Is this your girlfriend, Sammy?"

 _Jacob!_ Sam risked glancing at his brother—would-be brother!—who was several feet away, chatting blithely with Daisy and some kind of… djinn? _Help me!_ But before he could determine whether his brother heard him or not, he focused back on Azazel. "Leave us alone."

The demon clucked his tongue. "Can't do that, I'm afraid. We've got so much to talk about, you and I. Like your health, for instance. How's that head of yours? Must be spinning with all that unchecked power. Not as much fun as you thought it would be, huh?"

When Caroline helped Sam reverse Azazel's binding spell and reach his full potential, the demon vowed to put him back in his place. He wanted to drown Sam with his blood, and as much as Sam loathed his powers, some things were unquestionably worse. "It wouldn't be so bad if they hadn't been repressed for twenty-two years. You did this to me!"

Azazel shrugged. "It had to be done, kiddo. You're special—a priceless asset—and I'd be remiss not to protect my interests."

To the Stynes, Sam was a member of the family. To the demon, he was a piece of property. Why was this happening to him? What did he do to deserve it? "Find someone else!"

"Can't," the demon quipped. "It's not a matter of finding someone, or choosing someone, or asking someone, Sammy. That would be too easy. Fact is, you were born for this. You're the one. It has to be you."

Cringing, Sam glanced desperately at Jacob. Why wasn't he helping? Because William was standing next to him with a hand planted firmly on his shoulder. Jacob was watching the demon attentively—aggressively—and if looks could kill, Azazel wouldn't stand a chance. But William had brokered a truce for the wedding, and not even Jacob would violate that—at least not in front of his uncle. Sam was on his own. Terrific.

Sensing his turmoil, Azazel sighed. "I thought I told those ingrates to make you strong. But look at you! You're practically broken. That's another reason you need my blood, Sam. It's good for you. Fuels your anger."

"Sounds evil to me."

"Perhaps." Azazel leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, "But what if it saves you from the Stynes? What if it saves your girlfriend from an early grave? It's a small price to pay, don't you think?" He winked knowingly, and Sam felt sick. "Why don't you consider your options, and when you're ready to make the right choice, call my name. I'll keep an ear out. Understand, I am more than willing to beam you and darling Jessica back to the real world, but I expect something in return."

Sam scoffed. "You mean my help with the apocalypse? No way. I'll take my chances with the Stynes."

If his rejection upset the demon, Azazel didn't show it. Instead, he raised his hand to caress Sam's face, and after a week of enduring such treatment, it didn't even occur to Sam to object. He averted his eyes, sensing Jacob's impotent jealousy as Azazel murmured, "We don't have to be enemies, tiger. Give it some thought. I have a feeling you'll change your mind by the end of the reception."

Sam didn't have to ask what he meant. Somehow, the demon knew—or at least suspected—that Jessica's life was in danger. And if it meant protecting her, how far would Sam go? Would he actually side with his mother's killer? He couldn't! The very idea made his skin crawl. But then again, Jessica… Saving her was more important than—than what? The rest of humanity? Azazel would destroy everything, and Jessica would never thank Sam for putting her safety above the world's. She wasn't that selfish.

At a loss, Sam shook his head, and the demon chuckled. "See you 'round, kiddo." He took a moment to ogle over Jessica, who returned his gaze as defiantly as she could—which wasn't as impressive as she might have hoped. If anything, it amused the bastard. "Mmmmm… I can see why he likes you." And with that, he sauntered down the line toward Victor and Elizabeth.

"Sam, what the hell was that?" Jessica demanded when he was a safe distance away, but Sam barely heard her question. He looked over at Jacob in time to see William returning to Caroline—they still had hundreds of guests to greet—while his brother finally approached.

"You all right?" he asked in a low, dangerous voice—assuring Sam that Azazel would not get away with touching him. Before everything was said and done, he just might find himself in a deadly tug-of-war match. It wasn't a comforting thought.

"What's he doing here?"

Caroline's interference with Azazel's binding spell should have severed their allegiance. Why would the Stynes invite him to the wedding?

Jacob scowled. "Well, the sad thing is, he's useful to us. And we need to prove we're still useful to him or he might claim full custody of you." Sam struggled to hide his horror, and Jacob's expression softened. "Don't worry. I'm not going to let him take you. We reinforced the protective warding around the property. No one—not even that demon—can leave without obtaining the incantation upon bidding us farewell. He doesn't realize it yet, but teleportation's off the table." He smirked, anticipating the demon's disgruntlement, but then he remembered the gravity of their situation and resumed scowling. "Sammy… We have to convince Yellow Eyes that we're equipped to handle you. It's the easiest way to get him off our backs. That means you have to stay on your best behavior and cooperate with us. Got it?"

 _Cooperate._ Sam's blood ran cold at the operative word. "What do you want me to do?"

"For now, I need you to calm down and relax. We still have a long night ahead of us, and you need your strength."

 **SPN**

By Bela's estimation, over six hundred people—or things—were in attendance that night. If they all took the opportunity to visit with the bridal party and congratulate Victor and Elizabeth on their wedding, the receiving line would last over two hours. No wonder the reception wasn't scheduled to start until midnight. From what John could tell, the guests were extremely chatty and not the least bit interested in speeding things along.

Well, he wasn't about to waste his energy standing in a damn line. Even if it meant passing up a chance to speak with Sam—the kid might not recognize him in his disguise, but he would certainly recognize his voice. Maybe John could encourage him, not to mention alert him to an imminent rescue. But that would be risky. In his current shape, Sam might—however inadvertently—give his dad away, and it was always possible that Jacob would recognize his voice too. Better for John to keep his distance and focus on his mission.

Consequently, while the myriad of guests who remained in the assembly room talked and mingled with each other—it would be a long wait as the line slowly progressed out into the hallway—John and Bela stealthily withdrew in the other direction. The thief had plenty of experience traveling inconspicuously, and John worked well with her. They took their time, acting smitten, and no one paid them much attention or stopped them when they reached the side door at the back of the room. With a quick backward glance to make sure they were flying beneath the radar, they slipped through the door and into an empty corridor.

"Now what?" Bela asked, green eyes lit with excitement.

John cautiously ventured forward, talking as he went. "A house like this must have a library, right?"

"You don't think—?"

"It's worth investigating."

 **SPN**

After the receiving line, the bridal party took thirty minutes to catch their breaths in a private room. Despite his nephew's attitude toward Azazel, William was pleased with everyone's performance thus far. In their society, women were not given much regard, making it easy for Paige to pass as Caroline. All she had to do was smile and look pretty—it was fortunate that Mary Winchester had such a genteel face. William would have enjoyed knowing her before she died.

As for Caroline, she was reveling in her role as the reluctant bride. Because William loved and respected his wife, he allowed her to reign over the family as queen. He valued her opinions and was rarely abusive, and while Caroline welcomed these courtesies, after hundreds—or thousands—of years repeatedly living, dying, and living again, she welcomed all sorts of experiences. Including torture. When Victor grabbed her by the neck at the end of the ceremony, she managed to maintain a distressed visage, but secretly, William knew she was having fun.

Sam and Jessica were both behaving themselves as well as could be expected. Arthur and Daisy were keeping each other company—since Paige was busy and Jacob was distracted. If only Cyrus and Elizabeth were present, and not tucked away out of sight, the night would have been perfect. But all things considered, it was going rather well, just as Caroline promised. Their guests were happy, and their reputation was on the mend.

At midnight, they announced Mr. and Mrs. Victor Frankenstein in the grand ballroom. The reception began with the newlyweds' first dance to Franz Schubert's _Die Forelle_ —fitting for their union. Elizabeth was much like a snared trout, and the guests applauded Victor's conquest over her. They proceeded with the toasts—Jacob was all southern charm, and William spoke eloquently of things to come. He found himself frequently locking gazes with Azazel—if they managed to reconcile their relationship, so much the better.

At one o'clock in the morning, they began their late-night feast. There was plenty of drinking and dancing, and soon enough, given the energy in the room, William anticipated some old-fashioned debauchery. But first they had a show to put on. A harvest. They would clear the stage for an operating table, they would replace Sam's jacket with a lab coat, and they would use his girlfriend as leverage to make him spill innocent blood. Poor kid didn't suspect a thing. He sat with Jacob at one end of the head table, anxiously keeping an eye on Jessica, who sat with Daisy at the other. Obviously, he was much too concerned with his premonitions to wonder what else the Stynes had in store, and William couldn't wait to see the look on his face when they brought in the lab rat. It was going to be exhilarating.

Without a word, he plucked his phone from his pocket and sent Earl a simple, concise text message. _It is time._

 **SPN**

Locating the library in such a convoluted mansion was no easy feat, but with John's persistence and Bela's expertise, they eventually managed it. The size of the room was breathtaking—anywhere else, it would have been a sight for sore eyes. (Contrary to popular belief, John placed a high value on research, and while he didn't necessarily share his youngest's love for libraries, he definitely appreciated them.)

This particular library brought to mind the reading room at the Folger Shakespeare Library in DC where John had finally found a ten-year-old Sam after the kid disappeared for several hours. (Apparently, the elementary school gave the students an early release, but the high school did not. Dean wasn't available to walk Sam home, and those were the days before cell phones. Naturally, that was about the time Dean's truancy problems began to spike.)

The Elizabethan architecture featured plenty of carved oak paneling, a high trussed ceiling with a couple chandeliers, a balcony with a spiral staircase in the far corner, and a massive fireplace. The carpet was bright red, and wherever shelves did not cover the walls, tapestries and beautifully engraved script supplied ornamentation. If the Stynes weren't such evil sons of bitches, their library might have been Sam's happy place.

"Do you really think they'd leave their spell book out in the open like this?" Bela asked as they made sense of the cataloging system.

"Out in the open?" John replied, raising an eyebrow. "We're in their safe house between realities."

"True, but they have hundreds of guests downstairs, and any number of them would sell their souls for the Book of the Damned. Especially the witches."

"The Book of the Damned was a long shot, anyway," John said. "It disappeared in Europe at the end of the first world war, and since studying the Stynes, I haven't found anything to suggest it was ever smuggled to the States. No. We're looking for something less comprehensive. Something specific to this house, and how it was constructed—how it's held together."

"You want to cast a reversal spell and destroy it?"

John shook his head. "Not if I don't have to. That would jeopardize Sam and his girlfriend. But, if all else fails…" He gave a little shrug that made Bela's eyes widen.

"Okay then," she said softly. "Let's keep it from coming to that."

"By all means."

They searched for hours—it would have been tedious with a normal book collection, but nothing about the Stynes was normal, and John had to resist the urge to skim through every grimoire. How could one family acquire so much knowledge of the dark arts? And if they chose to wield it against the rest of mankind, who could stop them? It was a frightening prospect that chilled him to the bone.

According to the clock above the mantel, it was well after one in the morning when they were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Glancing at each other in alarm, John and Bela quickly took up positions on either side of the library door. When a solitary man in a formal suit passed between them, John jumped him from behind while Bela made sure he wasn't followed.

Grunting, the man retaliated, but John had the element of surprise, and the man wasn't able to recover. After a brief scuffle, he went down hard, and John brandished his M1911. The Stynes might be tough, but they weren't invincible, and like any coward, the man froze at the sight of the gun. "What…? Who…? Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"I'll ask the questions," John said fiercely, observing the man's face. He wasn't hard to recognize. Thanks to Ellen's friend Ash, who knew his way around the Internet, John had viewed plenty of Styne photographs and could identify most (if not all) of them on sight. This one was Earl—the kidnapper whose incompetence enabled Jessica to escape last year. Excellent! "Why aren't you at the reception, Mr. Styne? Too boring for you?"

"You aren't going to shoot me," Earl replied, albeit doubtfully. "Someone'll hear and raise the alarm."

"It's a big house," Bela countered. "Who's going to hear? We're a long way from the ballroom."

Earl blanched, glancing from her back to John in apprehension. "Look, I don't know who you people are, but my relatives won't stand for such impertinence!"

"Impertinence?" John would have laughed, but was too angry. "This ain't impertinence, asshole. This is war. You don't recognize me 'cause I'm wearing more make-up than Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley, so let me tell you who I am. I'm the hunter that killed Eldon. The hunter that killed Monroe. The hunter whose son you've been terrorizing for the last week. And I'm gonna rip you apart as slowly and painfully as I can if you don't give me a reason not to. Capisce?"

Judging by Earl's grimace, John had made his point loud and clear.

 **SPN**

Given his knowledge of the Stynes, John was hardly surprised to discover a secret laboratory hidden behind the walls of the library. Nor was he surprised by the prisoners trapped within three cylindrical containment pods—a young man and woman, both around Dean's age, plus a little boy who must have been Cyrus. But when he learned how they were being used to twist Sam's arm, he was pissed. And when he further learned that Sam was scheduled to harvest one at the reception, he nearly lost it.

As Bela went to the aid of the hostages, John aggressively strapped Earl to an operating table. "You know, for such an intelligent, prestigious, and powerful family, you idiots made one hell of mistake. You should have killed me before going anywhere near my children."

Resigned to his defeat, Earl struggled only to preserve his dignity. "Well, you'll have to excuse us, but we don't consider Sam one of your children."

John clenched his fists. "Like I said. One hell of a mistake."

The containment pods must have been soundproof. As soon as Bela opened one, the prisoner's wailing became audible—she was too traumatized to realize they were saving her, and it took Bela several minutes to calm her down. Once John was satisfied with Earl's restraints, he made his way over to liberate the man, who at least managed to hold back his whimpering, if not his tears.

Finding the button on the floor that dropped the cylindrical walls, John helped him step off the platform. "It's all right," he said gruffly, unable to summon a more reassuring tone. "My name's John, and that's Bela, and we're going to do everything we can to get you out of here."

"Thank you!" the man wept. "Thank you!"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," John muttered. From the corner of his eye, he pondered the seven-year-old child who stood watching in disbelief. Cyrus. Jacob's little brother. He looked scared, underweight, and bookish with his argyle sweater and browline glasses. John could see why Sam might gravitate toward him—surrounded by sadistic monsters, he would readily fall for the pipsqueak's innocent demeanor. But John wasn't fooled. In all likelihood, Cyrus shared his family's corruption and could not be trusted.

"Wait!" he protested when Bela approached the boy's containment pod. She glanced back in surprise, but John was already focusing on Earl. "He's one of yours?" Earl nodded. "What's he doing in time out?"

An odd look crossed Earl's face—one that was difficult to decipher. "Let me think," he snarled. "You killed his daddy, Mr. Winchester. You killed his brother, and several of his cousins. At his age, he can't comprehend why we haven't reciprocated by carving open his new foster-brother, and he's jealous of the attention Jacob's giving him. So, the little rugrat thought he'd take matters into his own hands. We caught him sneaking through the house after curfew, in possession of a knife, and when we questioned him, he admitted wanting to cut Sammy's throat. He could've done it, too. Sammy's fond of him, and wouldn't have seen it coming. But we can't have that, now can we? Sammy's much too precious to waste."

Throughout this sickening monologue, something inside John snapped. In silent fury, he aimed his gun and shot Earl directly between the eyes. Startled, the hostages shrieked, and even Bela covered her mouth. John felt no remorse. The Stynes weren't human, and they all deserved to die.

As for Cyrus… He glanced over his shoulder and studied the boy in disgust. Naturally, he was pressed against the back of his pod, shaking in fear with tears in his eyes. John had no doubt he'd be begging for his life if his cage wasn't soundproof, but why should he spare him? He was young, but what difference did that make? He was still a monster—and worse, he was Monroe's son.

"John?" Bela asked nervously, sensing the hunter's animosity. "John, we have to get these people out of here, so whatever you decide, make it quick."

"I know!" he heatedly replied. "Believe me, I know."

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	28. Betrayal

**SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Monday, November 2, 2005)**

It did not take long for drunken revelers to notice the women in their company—including the women in the bridal party. Of course, Caroline and Elizabeth were off limits, but Daisy and Jessica were fair game. And since Jacob had finally given Sam a crystal to silence the psychic noise, he didn't perceive the guests' lustful desires until a small pack ventured up the stage steps to the head table where the unsuspecting bridesmaids were picking at their food.

"Care for a dance?" one asked lewdly, and before either could respond, they grabbed them each by the wrists and hauled them from their seats—their stunned objections only encouraged the bastards.

Sam's heart jumped to his throat. "No, no, no!" It happened so quickly that by the time he raced from the groom's side of the table over to the bride's side, both girls had vanished onto the busy dance floor. "JESS!" He started after her, but Jacob caught up to him and snatched his arm. Sam tried shaking him off, but Jacob only tightened his grip, and they stared at each other tensely.

"Stay here," Jacob growled. "You're in no position to help her, and if you try, you'll only provoke them. Let me handle it." Sam wanted to argue—it was Jessica, for God's sake!—but Jacob would not be crossed. He shoved his captive onto a chair—sideways—and handcuffed his wrist to one of the back posts. "Sit tight. Stay calm."

"Jacob, wait—! Please—!"

Muttering something about overdue entertainment, Jacob ignored Sam's protests and made his way down the steps to the dance floor. Crap! Perhaps recklessly, Sam sprang to his feet, more than willing to carry the chair with him if it meant protecting Jessica, but the damn thing didn't move, and the handcuffs effectively curtailed his advance. Falling back on his seat, he glanced at his manacles in frustration. "Come on!" No amount of yanking did any good; he was stuck. How was that possible? The chair wasn't even that heavy!

"Give it up, squirt," Victor said, towering over him with an eager leer. Sam froze, gazing up at him in dread. Oh, hell no! But sure enough, the bastard leaned over him and wrenched his body around so his arm was pinned behind his back. Straddling his legs, Victor sat on top of him and ran his fingers through his hair. Sam tried swinging his free arm, but Victor caught his wrist and easily held it down.

"We made a few magical upgrades to our handcuffs," he explained, intimately breathing in Sam's scent. "Not only are they pick-resistant, they also lend their security to their anchors. In this case, your chair—which is why you can't lift it. And I dare you to pull another stunt like breaking your thumb. Spoiler alert. It won't help you." He proceeded to lick Sam's cheek, much to the amusement of several attentive guests. The ballroom was quickly spiraling into a den of fornication, and no one seemed to care that Victor was already preparing to cheat on his wife. Sam groaned as their lips met.

 _JACOB! JA—!_

No! He hastily suppressed his psychic S.O.S. If Jacob came to his rescue, who would save Jessica? She was the one in danger—Victor might have his way with Sam, but he wasn't about to kill him. Elizabeth, on the other hand, wouldn't hesitate to stab her victim straight through the chest. Elizabeth?

Twisting away from Victor, Sam desperately scanned his surroundings for the wretched young woman, but found no sign of her. William was also missing, while Caroline sat clutching Arthur's hand with a vacant expression on her face. What the hell? "Victor, wait!" he gasped. "What's wrong with mother? Where's Elizabeth?"

Pulling back, Victor glanced around the stage and snickered in delight. "Well, since you asked so nicely, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret." He resumed brushing Sam's hair, but with added aggression. Sam winced at the unwelcome contact. "Here's the thing. Elizabeth was never here. She's been sleeping in her bedroom this whole time. After all, she can't be trusted to play her role. If she walked down that aisle, this wedding would have been a disaster."

Sam caught his breath in dawning realization. "You don't mean…?"

Victor kissed his forehead. "That's right. Caroline disguised herself as Elizabeth to prevent a scandal while Paige Fontaine disguised herself as Caroline to cover it up. And now, mommy dearest and your precious brother are both out to get your girlfriend, which means I have you all to myself. Finally!"

As Sam processed the implications of this deception, Victor bore down on him with renewed urgency, and this time, nothing in the world could stop him.

 **SPN**

Finding herself in a swarm of drunk and wild perverts, Jessica fought to keep her nausea at bay—which was all the more challenging thanks to the stench of sweat, alcohol, and roses. She wasn't prone to claustrophobia, but as three or four strange men took turns groping her, spinning her, and tossing her between them, she definitely felt the walls closing in. She was trapped, dizzy, and off-balance. Damn shoes.

Desperate and increasingly aware of other female guests who were already on the ground, Jessica mustered her remaining strength and called to mind everything Jo Harvelle taught her about self-defense. She was _not_ going to let these bastards rape her! She had to get away.

Resolved, she jabbed someone's throat, slammed her heel on someone's foot, punched, pushed, scratched, and even bit one guy's hand. Instinct took over, and she lashed out with everything she had, catching them all off guard. Fortunately, they weren't as tough as the Stynes, and given their inebriation, she managed to slip through their fingers with surprising ease. Then, spotting the ballroom door, she hurtled through the crowd toward freedom.

"Jessica!? Where'd you go, darling!?"

The sound of Jacob's voice prompted her to speed up—she was too scared and flustered to consider the consequences of her flight. In complete survival mode, her only concern was escaping—all other thoughts of Sam, Daisy, hostages, and premonitions fled her mind. So when she suddenly crashed into an imposing African-American, she shrieked, attacking him frantically.

"Jessica, stop!" He countered with firm but gentle expertise, twisting her around and sliding his arms across her waist. "I'm not going to hurt you! I'm a friend of Ellen's!"

Ellen? She faltered, caught between hope and disbelief. Was it true? Was it even possible? She might have recognized the man's voice, but definitely not his face. Still, she didn't sense any cruelty in him—only protection—and that settled her nerves. When he led her toward the exit, sheltering her in his muscular embrace, she surrendered to his guidance.

They passed out into the corridor with no difficulties. The Stynes' guests were too self-absorbed to question their withdrawal, and the Stynes themselves were a good distance behind them. The hunter—who else would Ellen send but a hunter?—whispered encouragement as they made their way toward the grand foyer.

"I know you've been through an ordeal, but it's almost over, and we're going to get you out of here. My partner, Bela, is helping two other hostages escape. I'll take you to her, but then I need to go back for Sam. I wish I could personally escort you to safety, but you'll be fine with Bela. You're a strong, capable young woman. You've done this before; you can do it again."

Jessica wasn't sure how to respond. Just because she escaped Earl and Freddie last year didn't mean she had natural talent—and she certainly didn't want it to become a recurring theme in her life! "Wait!" she gasped when they darted through a rose archway into the magnificent foyer. Beyond the tiered fountain in the middle of the marble floor stood two beautiful glass doors with intricate wrought-iron embellishments, matching side lights, and an overhead lunette. Jessica shook her head. "I'm not supposed to go outside! Sam warned me it's dangerous…"

"Sam's under duress," the hunter patiently remarked. "I doubt he's thinking clearly. But trust me, the Stynes only brought you here for the wedding and reception. When it's all over, they're not gonna need you anymore, and I can guarantee they'll kill you. They'll probably force Sam to watch. You have to run, and you can't look back. Don't worry about Sam. I'm not leaving without him."

He urged her forward, and she obeyed, despite her misgivings. If Sam was truly psychic, she could be heading straight to her death. But if she stayed, she would die anyway—the hunter was right about that. She might only have this one chance, and she was bent on taking it. Besides, this guy was a friend of Ellen's. He could be trusted. Right?

When they reached the double doors, the hunter wrenched one open and stepped out onto a well-lit porch. Jessica followed, only to stop short at the grisly sight on the walkway below—a man and woman were deliberating over two dead bodies—their throats had been slashed and blood was dripping on the ground. Jessica couldn't help but shriek, and the culprits glanced up in mild interest.

The man she immediately recognized as the yellow-eyed freak—a demon, according to Jacob—who had been harassing Sam. The woman, however, was unfamiliar—a gorgeous brunette in a dark green column gown with a single strap over her left shoulder. She was riddled in diamonds, but her pitch-black eyes warranted more attention. She wasn't human; neither of them were.

"Go back! Go back!" the hunter demanded, shoving Jessica inside. He pulled the door shut, snatched her hand, and barreled across the room, dragging her with him while cursing under his breath. His sudden alarm heightened her distress; it was all she could do not to panic. They were in so much trouble!

Just when she thought it couldn't get worse, Jacob appeared under the rose archway, effectively cutting them off. He frowned at the hunter, who compulsively drew a gun from a concealed holster beneath his jacket. Without a moment's hesitation, he aimed for the Styne's head, but wasn't fast enough to squeeze the trigger. Some sort of magical energy hit them from behind, knocking the weapon from the hunter's grasp and throwing him and Jessica both to the floor. A second blast sent them sailing in opposite directions. Jessica barely missed colliding with a floral arrangement as she spun onto her back.

Sitting up, she anxiously watched Jacob and Yellow Eyes approach the fallen hunter. No sign of the black-eyed woman; she must have remained out front.

"Sorry, John," Yellow Eyes taunted as he and Jacob paced around their common enemy. "It's not that I mind you shooting random Stynes—to be honest, they've kinda been asking for it. But Jacob's currently indispensable. You see, he and Sam are wearing these special friendship bracelets, binding them together. So if you kill Jacob, you kill your son, and wouldn't that be a travesty?"

It was hard to say who was more surprised. The hunter, by this unexpected threat to Sam, or Jacob, by the hunter's identity. "John Winchester?" he asked, squinting. "That's one hell of a get-up, sir. Why go through all the trouble of disguising yourself when you're more than welcome in our humble abode? We're always eager to host fine legacies such as yourself."

"My mistake," John said bitterly.

Jacob squatted down so they were nearly eye-level. "Did you really think you could sneak in here, all by your lonesome, and abscond with one of our guests?"

"It's worked before," John replied. "And besides, I wasn't alone. Apparently I've been gallivanting around your house with a demon." He and Jacob both glanced up to see Yellow Eyes watching calmly with folded arms.

"Not just any demon," he said with a wink. "My very own daughter." At Jacob's indignation, he sneered. "What? I'm still miffed at your aunt for encroaching on my authority. But I'm not siding against you, boy. I'm just trying to make a point. You're not the only one with a claim on Sam, and just so we're clear, my claim takes precedence."

Jacob stood to his full height. "That right?"

With the two villains sufficiently distracted, John caught Jessica's gaze. He mouthed the word, "Go!" and she didn't think twice. She was just a girl—how could she help the hunter against a demon and a Styne? By getting the hell out of here so he wasn't preoccupied with her safety.

Sliding backwards across the marble floor, she furtively inched her way to the far end of the foyer where she scrambled to her feet and ran for her life.

 **SPN**

It didn't take Jacob long to notice Jessica's flight. Groaning, he abruptly abandoned his confrontation with the demon in favor of stalking her. "Where do you think you're going, Jessie?"

Meanwhile, John grunted, writhing against the hellish force that pinned him to the ground. How could he have been so stupid? Bela was a demon? No wonder she had been willing to help him—manipulative whore. She had practically served him up to the Stynes as a wedding present! And now, those two hostages were dead, Sam was no closer to freedom, and Jessica was in more danger than ever. Son of a bitch.

"Huh." Azazel peered after Jacob in surprise. "I can't believe he just left you with me. For all he knows, I could kill you right now, and you're a legacy. What's so special about her?"

They glanced at each other, and John fumed. This yellow-eyed scumbag was responsible for Mary's death and there was nothing he could do about it. He was at the demon's mercy, and it pissed him off. "You want to kill me? Kill me. Get it over with."

"Not so fast," Azazel chided, leaning over him thoughtfully. "I mean, what would killing you in a place like this accomplish? You're a good hunter, John, but you're not a threat to me. Not by a long shot. Which means I can afford to wait for a more strategic opportunity—perhaps when Sammy's around to watch. Won't that be fun?"

Shaking in outrage, John clenched his fists.

Azazel chuckled. "Now, if you don't mind…" He reached down and searched John's pockets, eventually finding and confiscating both of Bela's mojo bags. "It seems the Stynes have taken some precautions to keep me from teleporting, which means I need some extra batteries to get around. Thanks, John. I couldn't smuggle these in myself. I'm too high-profile. But you? You're the perfect delivery boy." And with that, he disappeared.

 **SPN**

" _Whatever happens tonight, don't go outside."_

Not like she had much of a choice. Everywhere she turned, supernatural zombies and witches were going about their business, and if they realized she was running from Jacob, they were bound to apprehend her. She was trapped like a mouse in a maze with only one possible escape route—the back door—and refusing to take it would mean disaster.

Consequently, she raced out onto a breathtaking patio and proceeded across the lawn. Garden lights offered ample illumination, sparkling around the flowerbeds and along the path up to a domed gazebo, but Jessica turned away from them, seeking shelter in the shadows. A fountain bubbled to her left, so she veered to her right, noticing a cluster of crepe myrtles where she might be able to hide—at least long enough to gather her wits.

Trying not to cry, she pressed her hands against her mouth and struggled to collect herself. It wasn't fair. Magic. Demons. Monsters. They weren't real! This shouldn't be happening. She should be back at school, safe, with Sam, studying for their next exams, with their whole lives ahead of them. Not here. Anywhere but here.

"Jessica!"

She stiffened at the sound of Jacob's southern drawl. He was close, and he was amused.

"Come on back, darling! Can't leave without the magic word, so there's really nowhere for you to run!"

She shook her head and picked up her pace, eventually entering a courtyard lined by hedges. It was occupied by an enormous marble statue of an angry two-headed bird with wide, unfurled wings. It was monstrous—the pedestal alone reached her shoulder height—and for a terrible moment she could only stare at it in shock. Then she turned, eager to find some other refuge, only to find herself face-to-face with another woman.

Elizabeth. Beautiful, heartbroken Elizabeth. At some point in the last hour, she had ditched the reception and stolen a ceremonial knife for a midnight ramble in the garden. Now, she appraised her maid of honor with a severe expression and tears in her eyes. "You think you can escape when I can't?"

Jessica shrank back. "Please! I know you're not like the rest of them. We can help each other."

Elizabeth clucked her tongue and slowly advanced. "Unfortunately, darling, you're beyond helping. The moment you laid eyes on sweet little Sam, you were doomed."

Jessica caught her breath and bolted to the right, but didn't make it more than a few feet before she was swept up by an invisible current that carried her back to the pedestal. She was shoved against it with such crushing force that she groaned. Meanwhile, Elizabeth crossed over to her maliciously.

"It could be worse," she whispered sadly, stroking Jessica's face. "At least you won't be around to see what they have planned for your boyfriend." And with that, she brandished her knife and stabbed her victim through the chest.

 **SPN**

Victor was shredding his captive's jacket with his bare fingers, smothering him with his mouth and tongue, when out of nowhere, Sam's mind was engulfed by Jessica's panic. The pain was blinding, and he howled with such anguish that Victor pulled back in surprise.

 _No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!_

Sobbing, Sam renewed his efforts to break free, but Victor held him down. Jessica was dying, and the bastard didn't give a damn. Oh, God. She was dying, and he couldn't save her!

 _JESS!_

Bucking wildly, he pushed and shouted with everything he had, and Victor only laughed. He tightened his grip on Sam's free wrist, bruising it, and leaned down to nibble on his ear.

Fear quickly succumbed to shock. Sam's heart turned to lead and for an agonizing moment, he couldn't breathe. A vision of the courtyard came over him, and he watched helplessly as Elizabeth lowered Jessica's body to the ground. She was almost affectionate, handling the girl with care, but the cruel smile on her lips belied her gentleness. She was enjoying herself.

 _No_ _…_

Sam felt Jessica's life fading away. Her eyes glazed over, and she was gone.

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review!**_


	29. Heartbreak

_**Author's Note:**_ _I literally spent all day writing this chapter. Thank goodness for weekends! I'm extremely proud of it, and I hope it satisfies all your expectations. Enjoy!_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Monday, November 2, 2005)**

Drawn back to the ballroom, Sam languished under a crushing weight. He could hear Victor moaning; he could feel Victor's tongue tasting his tear-stained face; and he couldn't do anything about it. His wrists were still restrained—one cuffed behind him to a chair post, the other clasped in an iron grip—and no matter how desperately he squirmed, his assailant was not deterred.

Beneath the stage, guests were indulging themselves with carnal decadence, many of the women against their will. Only one witch managed to retain her dignity—Olivette, the high priestess of the Grand Coven. She sat apart from the mob, watching in contempt while sampling the cake. Her powers were extraordinary, on par with Caroline's, and no one dared to proposition her. But unlike Caroline, she was not acquainted with Sam; she was not privy to his psychic potential; and she was not prepared for his inadvertent invasion.

Without realizing it—too devastated to notice—Sam's instincts clawed their way to the surface. Detecting a wealth of magic, his powers washed over Olivette and melded with her own—he might not be able to cast spells like a witch, but as a psychic, he could tap into the abilities of others as naturally as he could their thoughts and emotions, and once channeled, he could redirect them as he pleased.

If only he could make it all stop. The pain, fear, misery, and harassment… He just wanted it to stop!

In that moment, some distant corner of his mind supplied a single word, often chanted by Caroline to subdue her victims. "Dormite." He aimed it at everyone, feeling no relief or satisfaction as they crumpled unconsciously to the floor. Even Olivette. Even Victor. Sam felt nothing but cold as the bastard slid off his lap.

Jessica…

It was too late to save her, and he had no one to blame but himself. What made him think the Stynes would protect her from Elizabeth? But it wasn't Elizabeth; it was Caroline. Of course! She had been using telekinesis in his premonitions, even though Elizabeth's powers were blocked. And Caroline could change her appearance—she had spent the last week disguised as Mary Winchester. Sam should have guessed; he should have known; he should have sensed it.

Covering his eyes, stifling his sobs, he wondered who the Stynes would kill next. More hostages? His father? Dean? He couldn't protect them; he couldn't protect anyone.

But he couldn't bear to lose them. Not after this.

Climbing shakily to his feet—which made his head throb—Sam tugged halfheartedly on his manacles. Victor said he couldn't bust out of them, and thanks to a charm—or curse—his chair was anchored to the stage. The key was undoubtedly with Jacob, so unless he gave out spares, Sam was stuck. But wouldn't the family want spares, in case they needed to move him while Jacob was absent? Probably. It didn't hurt to look.

Sam crouched over Victor and used his free hand to search his pockets. It didn't take long to pilfer the desired object—plus a concealed Smith & Wesson. He stared at the gun in bewilderment before recognizing how much he resembled a cage-bound bird—one too timid to leave its prison despite an open door. No, he had to escape. These manipulative butchers were _not_ his family. They were evil, violent monsters, and he wanted nothing to do with them. He was a hunter. A Winchester.

Priming the weapon, Sam shot Victor twice in the head. It wouldn't bring back Jessica, but it would guarantee the son of a bitch never hurt anyone again.

 **SPN**

"What did you do?" Jacob demanded when he reached the courtyard and found Elizabeth kneeling beside Jessica's corpse—just like Sam predicted. Damn. Not that he cared about the girl's demise—she was only a distraction, and they were planning to kill her anyway—but this would seriously compromise Sam's faith in him—and Jacob had worked so hard to earn that faith. How could Lilibet do this to him?

"Mind your place, boy," his cousin said caustically, looking up with a sneer. She stood and abruptly transformed into Mary Winchester, magically exchanging the wedding gown for a sparkling red mother-of-the-bride dress. Aunt Caroline! Jacob took a step back in astonishment, much to her amusement. "Oh, that's right! I forgot to tell you. Your uncle and I decided to recast some roles for the wedding. Couldn't risk my daughter spoiling the whole affair, after all. There's simply too much at stake."

Jacob found himself at a loss for words. Was this the reason they put Cyrus in time out? Why didn't they tell him? He could be trusted! They knew that, didn't they?

As if reading his thoughts, Caroline sighed. "Relax. We weren't trying to keep secrets from you. We were trying to keep them from Sam. I admit, I was interested to see if his premonition would come to pass, but I didn't want him to make a fuss about it. And don't take this the wrong way, Jacob, but you might not have been able to hide our plans from the boy. Your bond grows stronger by the minute, and with his budding abilities, he might have caught a glimpse through your defenses. So we erred on the side of caution. That's all."

Jacob bristled. True, he was proud of his relationship with Sam, but that didn't make him the family's weak link. "Forgive me for saying so, but you underestimate my discipline."

"Perhaps," she allowed. "In which case, I'll make it up to you. But first, you'll have to explain why you and your brother are wearing those charm bracelets. I don't remember authorizing that. William and I wanted to overstimulate Sam during the ceremony, and you gave him relief. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Before Jacob could even process the question, much less formulate an answer, a loud gunshot pealed through the dark. He stiffened, fully expecting the bullet to slug him in a vital area, but surprisingly, the weapon had not been aimed at him. Rather, it was aimed at Caroline.

Alas for the assassin, no one had faster reflexes than the Styne matriarch. With the mere toss of her head, she diverted the bullet into the hedge on her left. Then, she glowered in the direction of its source. "Who would dare…?" She extended her arm, waved it, and reeled John Winchester in from the shadows. He landed roughly on his hands and knees, losing his grip on a pistol that clattered to Caroline's feet. She picked it up while regarding the man in irritation. From what Jacob could tell, she didn't recognize him with his elaborate disguise. For all her arrogance, she was not infallible. "Now who might you be?"

He stared at her in unbridled hatred, not the least bit fooled by her visage. Jacob had to give him credit—usually, humans balked at the sight of dead loved ones. But then, John wasn't a normal human. He was a hunter and a legacy. Better let Caroline know, or she might kill him for his insolence, and they couldn't afford to waste him. Not yet.

"Aunt Caroline, allow me to introduce John Winchester. He was brought here in disguise by a demon. Azazel's daughter, in fact. They wanted to remind us who Sam really belongs to."

Caroline pursed her lips and flicked her wrist. Immediately, John's make-up, prosthetics, contacts—everything that altered his appearance—dissolved like ash, exposing his real identity. "How nice to finally meet you, sir."

John attempted to rise, but Caroline's telekinesis hampered him. He wasn't going anywhere. Growling, he said, "All right, you got me. But if I can't wear a mask, you shouldn't either."

She laughed. "But I've grown fond of Mary's face. She was so beautiful. And it's not like I'm stealing it from her. Well, maybe I am, but she's probably in hell, so I'm sure she doesn't mind." Slowly, taking her time, Caroline crossed over to the hunter and knelt down in front of him; they glared at each other. "If you wanted to protect Sammy, you should have stayed away. Now we're going to sacrifice you in front of him, and so soon after losing his girlfriend… It'll crush him. But don't worry. We'll help him get over it."

"This is starting to sound familiar," John retorted. "I think it might be what Monroe said before I slaughtered him."

Jacob couldn't stop himself. He kicked John hard in the stomach, knocking him to his side. Just because they needed the self-righteous dick for the ritual didn't mean he had to be in perfect condition. Jacob wanted him to suffer for killing his father, not to mention Eldon, Eli, Rhett, Clyde, Roy, Colton, Roscoe and Mason. Granted, he had help with each of those murders, but he was still responsible, and Jacob had spent over a year waiting for this. He kicked John again, and again, and again.

He would have kept going, too, willing to break some ribs, but then, without warning, the ground began to shake. He nearly lost his balance, and even Caroline had to reach out for the statue's pedestal to steady herself. Her hair and dress began billowing as a windstorm picked up. The hedges rustled, and Jacob shielded his face with his arm. Meanwhile, John crawled over to Jessica's body, pulling her into a protective embrace. Why? Jacob found that puzzling—the girl was dead. Why bother mourning her at a time like this? But he was far too distracted by the strange weather to dwell on the hunter's behavior. What the hell was happening?

A silver beacon splintered the air on the far side of the courtyard. A portal? How? Where did it come from? Who opened it?

Beneath the portal, an obsidian mirror materialized with a crimson aura. Someone had forged a key. Was that even possible?

Seconds later, six figures barreled out with weapons blazing. They took one look at Jacob and opened fire. Fortunately, Caroline diverted their bullets with effortless control—her family would not be shot like vermin! However, this was the second time in under ten minutes she had been ambushed on her own property, and she was losing her patience.

The portal closed, and as Jacob's eyes readjusted to the dark, he recognized half of the intruders. Dean, plus two of the damn feds who sent him to prison. Victor Henriksen and Nathan Findley. The other three—a white guy, a black guy, and a woman—were strangers, but judging from their rustic attire, they were likely hunters. Ah, yes. John did claim the Winchesters had friends who loved Sam more than life itself. These must be them.

Caroline waved her arm, and their weapons were torn from their clutches. She made another grand gesture, and their bodies stiffened, freezing in place. Jacob noticed when Dean finally caught sight of her; his eyes widened and he cursed loudly. Caroline made a face and approached him resentfully. "Someone needs to watch his mouth." She slapped him hard, making the female hunter flinch.

"Leave him alone!" Findley snapped, though he was in no position to object. Jacob glanced at him and his supervisor in disapproval. Of course, he had always known they would pursue him relentlessly, especially after he killed Special Agent Calvin Reidy—not to mention the rest of the team in Omaha. But he had given them an opportunity to retreat, and this was how they paid him? Oh, he would make them regret it. But first…

"Dean," he said with a sadistic smile. "How nice to see you again."

The boy's anxious green eyes darted from Caroline to Jacob. He was trying so hard to maintain an angry, fearless attitude—just like his daddy—but there was no mistaking his tension. He was drained, as if he hadn't slept in days—which wouldn't surprise Jacob in the least—and he sported a large bruise on his cheek that wasn't from Caroline. Interesting.

"Jacob," he growled in a deep, hostile voice. "Where's my brother?"

"Your brother?" Jacob wasn't prepared for how upset those words made him. Technically, Sam _was_ Dean's brother, and the kid would naturally cling to their relationship. After all, Sam was too precious for anyone to abandon, and Dean was literally raised to watch out for him. Jacob knew that, but it didn't matter. Hearing Dean say it out loud made his blood boil. Sam belonged to the Stynes. He was _Jacob's_ brother! Which made Dean nothing but a threat.

Drawing a knife from inside his jacket, Jacob rushed at the young hunter and pressed the blade against his throat. "Care to repeat that?"

Dean wasn't fazed. "You need me alive."

Damn rituals and their damn legacies! Jacob fumed. "I can always cut your tongue out, boy. Sammy's mine now. If you ever suggest otherwise, it'll be the last thing to pass through your pretty lips. Understand?"

"JACOB, DON'T!"

Sam's cry came out of nowhere. Together, Jacob and Caroline whirled around to see him standing at the courtyard entrance with Victor's Smith & Wesson. The hell…?

He was obviously in poor shape. His free hand was rubbing his temple, his hair was disheveled, and his eyes were wet with tears. At some point, he had removed his jacket, so he only wore a vest over his shirt and tie. The implications were undeniable. Victor had tried to molest him—again!—and he not only fought back, he somehow stole a gun and broke out of his handcuffs. Despite everything, Jacob was impressed.

"Put down the gun, sweetheart," Caroline said calmly, but sternly. "You know better than to act this way."

For the briefest moment, Sam nearly faltered, but then he spotted John and observed the dead girl in his arms. Setting his jaw, he focused back on his mother and pointed the gun at her head. "I'm going to kill you." And yet, he didn't shoot.

With a long-suffering sigh, Caroline flicked her wrist.

Nothing happened.

Caroline blinked and tried again, but the pistol remained firmly in Sam's grasp. He winced, shaking precariously, but his abilities somehow managed to negate hers. Realizing it, he clenched his eyes shut and apparently neutralized her hold on the intruders. The next thing Jacob knew, they were all on the move, scrambling to recover their weapons while Dean tackled him to the ground. Meanwhile, John wrenched the ceremonial knife from Jessica's chest and lunged at Caroline, slitting her throat as quickly and savagely as he could.

Dean rolled Jacob to his back and proceeded to punch him in the face. For a normal human, he was remarkably strong, and the pain was palpable—but not unbearable. Not for Jacob, anyway. He found himself laughing, which caught Dean off guard. Their eyes met, and Jacob recognized his perplexity. He had sharp instincts—he knew Jacob wouldn't laugh so soon after Caroline's death without a very good reason.

"Dean, get off him!"

John yanked his son away from the Styne, dragging him to his feet. They all turned to gaze at Sam, who had collapsed to his knees. Thanks to the charm bracelets Olivette provided, he and Jacob were physically linked; they shared both their strengths and their weaknesses, which meant Sam suffered every blow from Dean's onslaught, and it hurt him far more than it hurt Jacob.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean exclaimed, starting towards the boy.

"Don't you dare!" Despite the two feds and three hunters who were bearing down on him with imposing P90s, Jacob leapt up, caught his rival by the arm, and shoved him at his father. After all, these guys were smart enough to figure it out—attacking Jacob meant attacking Sam.

Just to emphasize the point, John shouted, "Hold your fire! Don't shoot him!"

Jacob stood between the boy and his would-be rescuers. Their weapons were trained on him, but they were obviously at an impasse. Good. If anyone tried approaching Sam, Jacob would snap the fool's neck, legacy or not! And sooner or later, help would arrive. Uncle William, perhaps, or even Victor. Jacob might despise his cousin, but they were still family, and they would set aside their differences long enough to resolve this crisis.

"You took Sam away from me once, boy," he told Dean bitterly. "But mark my words. It won't happen again."

 **SPN**

"You've got to be kidding me!" Dean had never wanted to kill anyone—or anything—more in his entire life, but somehow, Jacob and Sam were bound together. God, he hated supernatural monsters. How much worse could this day get?

As soon as the question crossed his mind, he mentally kicked himself, because that was naturally the moment Sam held his pistol up to his head. Son of a bitch!

"Jacob!"

Anyone could hear the despair in Sam's voice. He was at the breaking point—Dean could only imagine how Jessica's death was affecting him—and now he was willing to sacrifice himself to protect his remaining family. It shouldn't be like this! Dean was the older brother. Dean was the one who should risk everything to save the day. Watching Sam now, he felt nothing but shame and panic. "Sammy!"

"Don't you even think about it!" John yelled. The others made similar remarks, but Dean barely heard them over his pounding heart.

Furrowing his brow, Jacob stepped back and pivoted to keep them all in his line of sight, but the moment he glanced at his captive, his double-take was one of genuine alarm. "Sammy?"

"I'm sorry, Jacob," Sam replied, trembling. "But I won't let you hurt them."

"Put the gun down, little brother," Jacob tried soothing him, much to Dean's disgust. "They came all this way to fetch you; not to watch you die."

"I don't care."

"Sam," John interrupted, taking a cautious step forward with his hands slightly raised. "Just think about this. You don't have to shoot yourself. We have Jacob surrounded. We can take him out after you remove that bracelet. All you have to do is remove the bracelet."

A tear slid down Sam's face. "I can't."

"It's magically clasped," Jacob explained. "Only I can remove it."

Figures. Dean wanted to scream. How could this be happening?

Suddenly, Caleb intervened, firing two expert shots at Jacob, first in the arm, then the leg. He went down hard, gasping, even as Sam dropped his gun, howling in pain.

"SAM!" Dean made a beeline for his brother, charging as fast as he could. Behind him, he heard John yelling and Caleb defending himself—the kid was threatening suicide! What was he supposed to do? At least this way he'd recover.

"Sammy!" Dean dropped to his brother's side and gently gathered him in his arms. "It's okay! I've got you! It's not that bad!" Luckily, Caleb knew what he was doing. The wounds were bloody, but superficial. Findley and Henriksen were already shedding their jackets to apply pressure, and while Sam grew pale, his wet eyes remained focused.

"Dean?" He was clearly devastated. "I tried…"

"It's okay," Dean insisted. "Don't talk. We're gonna get you out of here." He sensed Jacob's gaze and looked up to find the bastard lying on his back with Ellen and Rufus guarding him. His expression was unsettling—not just angry, but jealous. Dean had to get Sam as far away from here as possible, and he had to do it now. John and Caleb were still at each other's throats, so he turned to Findley for help. "We need to reopen that portal!"

"We can't leave yet," Sam objected. "We have to find Cyrus!"

Cyrus? The name caught John's attention, and he whipped around while Jacob grinned. Crap. That didn't bode well.

"Who's Cyrus?" Dean asked, but John cut Sam off.

"Forget it," he said harshly. "The boy's trapped in a containment pod deep inside that house, and the Stynes have hundreds of freaks at their command. There's no sure way to reach him. Our only option is to leave while we still can."

"No!" Sam struggled to sit up, but Dean, Findley, and Henriksen urged him not to move.

"I'll open the portal," Ellen offered while Caleb took her place, towering over Jacob. She scrambled to the mirror while Sam resisted.

"Dad, please! I promised not to leave him! The guests have all been knocked out! There's no one between us and the laboratory. I swear!"

John wasn't listening. He had taken off his tie and was binding Jacob's ankles together. When Henriksen noticed, he whistled and tossed John a pair of handcuffs. He rolled Jacob over and quickly fastened his wrists behind his back. They might not be able to kill him, but at least they could slow him down.

"We could take him with us," Rufus pointed out.

"We're going to have enough trouble as it is with Sam," John predicted. "We don't need Jacob complicating things. Get the girl!" Rufus hesitated, but only long enough to observe Dean and the feds still wrestling with the boy. Then, he claimed Jessica's body and went after Ellen. Caleb followed.

"You can't do this!" Sam shouted, sobbing furiously. "Dad, please! I'm begging you!"

Dean held him down, heart racing, beyond confused. What the hell was going on? "Who's Cyrus?"

He heard Ellen chanting in the distance. The ground quaked and the wind howled tempestuously as the portal once again tore itself open.

"Jacob has a seven-year-old brother named Cyrus!" Henriksen bellowed over the frenzy. "Must be him!"

Dean frowned. Why would Sam care about a Styne? Son of a bitch!

"Let's go!" John commanded in a manner that brooked no argument. Together, Dean, Henriksen and Findley managed to haul Sam up, which made him practically hysterical.

"Let me go! I have to find Cyrus! Please!"

Dean nearly caved. How could they refuse him anything after ten days of unending anguish?

But then John shouted, "Dean! That's an order! Move it!"

"C'mon, Sammy!" He and the feds half-dragged, half-carried the kid to the portal. He fought the whole way, and the next words out of his mouth were bone-chilling.

"Jacob! Please!"

"Don't worry, Sam!" Jacob returned his cry. "It doesn't matter where they take you! I'm gonna get you back! I promise!"

Over Dean's dead body! But somehow, he didn't think the sentiment would be well received. Damn it! What the hell was wrong with his brother? And would he ever forgive them?

 **SPN**

 _ **Please Review**_


	30. Epilogue

_**Author's Note:**_ _Yay! An even 30!_

 **SPN**

 **(Atlanta, Georgia … Monday, November 2, 2005)**

According to Bela—a damn demon!—the residents of the prestigious Buckhead community were under a misdirection spell to distract them from the unusual amount of wedding traffic on Monarch Avenue, so if any of them were still awake in the early hours of the morning (well before sunrise), they still would not have noticed the unusual group of people traipsing through the dark. They would not have noticed the P90s, the blood, the corpse, or even Sam's awful protests as he was forced along by Dean, Henriksen and Findley.

John hated to hear the boy cry, but it was necessary. He was understandably confused; he didn't know what was good for him. He actually considered Cyrus a friend! And perhaps he was, compared to Jacob or Caroline, but that didn't make him worth protecting. A Styne was a Styne.

This would inevitably come back to bite them. Now Jacob knew how important his brother was to Sam, and he would undoubtedly use that to his advantage. John should have killed the little brat when he had the chance, instead of leaving him to rot in his cylindrical prison. Damn moral codes. Cyrus might be a child, but he was still dangerous, and as long as he posed a threat to Sam, John felt nothing but regret for sparing his life.

After walking a mile, they reached Caleb's cargo van. While everyone else climbed in the back, John claimed the passenger seat and Caleb took the wheel. They sped out of Buckhead like bats out of hell, and made their way south toward the airport where Jim Murphy had secured lodging at an economic motel. It might not be the Four Seasons, but knowing Jim, it was nothing to complain about.

John frowned when Caleb mentioned the pastor. "Where is he, anyway?"

Caleb shook his head, and for a moment, didn't answer. But then he steeled himself and said, "We took a detour on our way into that cesspool—long story—but we lost track of Bobby Singer, and as for Jim… He didn't make it."

Son of a bitch. John buried his face in his hands, exhausted and overwhelmed. Behind him, Sam was finally quiet. At least quieter. He was still whimpering as Dean, Henriksen and Findley bandaged his arm and leg, but he wasn't speaking, and he wasn't fighting. Thank God for small favors. Meanwhile, Ellen was holding back tears of her own, obviously upset by Jessica's murder. And why shouldn't she be? She had spent thirteen months looking after the girl, and now… It wasn't fair.

At the motel, they acted quickly. The Stynes would be after them, and they didn't want to linger too long, but they had to cover their tracks. Retrieving fresh clothes from Sam's bag in the Impala, Dean helped his little brother change out of his wedding suit. They were throwing everything from the Stynes away—including the bracelet and a strange, marble-sized crystal—just in case Jacob could use a locator spell to find them.

Of course, that was easier said than done. The bracelet might be leather, but when John tried cutting it off, the magic dulled his blade. Ignoring Sam's broken expression, John sat him down on the couch and examined the silver charms. He thought he recognized them—if he had his journal, he would know for sure. But his journal was in his truck, which was parked at the Four Seasons, where Bela might be waiting to ambush him. Maybe Jim had something in his notes.

Spotting the pastor's duffel bag, John began riffling through it. When this was all over, he would greatly mourn his old friend's death, but right now, he had to focus. Fortunately, Jim came prepared. Thanks to the Winchesters' experience in Shreveport last year, the Stynes were known occultists, and Jim brought every book he had relating to the dark arts. Finding a chapter on charm bracelets, John was able to recite a reversal spell, and the damn thing finally fell off Sam's wrist. So much for Jacob's lies.

Sam, however, was hardly grateful. He wiped his eyes and glared furiously at his father. "You found Cyrus trapped in their laboratory, and you just left him there. How could you?"

"Sam," John said as patiently as possible. "Talking about this now won't do any good."

"I made a promise!"

"I know," John assured him. "But they were exploiting that boy to manipulate you…"

"No they weren't!"

"And I won't apologize for the decisions I made. They were in your best interest."

Sam once again broke down in tears—not just for Cyrus, but also for Jessica, and everyone else who suffered because of those bastards. John wanted nothing more than to scoop him up in his arms, hold him tight and promise to make everything okay. But that wasn't going to work this time. Too much damage had been done. He glanced over at Dean and recognized the kid's shock—he could stare evil in the face without breaking a sweat, but when it came to his little brother, he was vulnerable. He wanted to help, but under the circumstances… how?

With a sigh, John turned away and considered their next move. "We have to leave Atlanta. The sooner, the better. I need my truck, but it's possibly under demonic surveillance, so I can't go with you, and I won't let you risk your lives anymore than you already have."

"Dad—!"

"That's an order, Dean," John cut him off. "You're responsible for Sam. Take him to Bobby's, and I'll meet you there."

His eldest looked ready to argue, but as always, he quickly conceded. "Yes sir."

Ellen and Bobby's friend, Rufus, volunteered to accompany the boys while Caleb insisted on helping John. Meanwhile, Henriksen and Findley offered to return Jessica's body to her parents. They would be devastated, but at least they'd have closure.

"Take my business card," Henriksen said as they parted company. "I know we didn't get off on the right foot, Mr. Winchester, but if you ever need anything—anything!—you call me."

"Thank you," John said, shaking his hand.

Outside, he watched Dean ease Sam into the backseat of the Impala where he would rest under Ellen's supervision while Rufus sat up front. Poor kid. What did the Stynes do to him? He might never know. Sam blamed him for Cyrus, which meant he wasn't about to confide in him. Over the last few months, their relationship had finally been on the mend, and now this had to happen! They might never reconcile.

But John would be damned before he let the Stynes, or those demons, or anyone else take advantage of his baby boy! If Sammy hated him for it, oh well. There was nothing more to say.

"Dean!" he called out before his son could take the wheel. The kid jumped to attention and when John beckoned him, he made his way forward. Then, without warning, John pulled him into a crushing hug. They might not be the affectionate type, but after a night like this, it was warranted. Still, better make it short. Releasing him, he said, "Take care of your brother."

Dean nodded, his eyes unusually damp. "You know I will."

 **SPN**

Within minutes of their departure, Sam's throbbing head began hurting on whole new levels. They had left his crystal at the motel in case it was somehow traceable, but without it, he had nothing to help manage his abilities. The psychic noise in the real world was far more intense than it was in the safe house, and soon, he could barely think. He was surrounded by a city full of complicated people with complicated emotions, and they were basically drowning him. It was hard to breathe, and he doubled over in pure agony. Crap! Where was Jacob?

 **SPN**

Dean swerved off the road when he heard his brother muttering Jacob's name. What the hell!? "Sammy?" He turned around only to find Ellen desperately supporting the kid as he writhed miserably in her arms. "SAMMY!?"

"That's it. I'm driving." Rufus climbed out of the car, ran around the hood, and pushed Dean over to the passenger's side. What the hell was happening? Before Rufus could hit the acceleration, Dean demanded to switch places with Ellen. Once he was in the back, he held his brother as firmly as he could while pleading for an explanation.

"C'mon, Sammy! What's wrong? I'm begging you, little brother. Talk to me. What's wrong?"

"Dean…?" Sam met his gaze with a look of terror.

"It's okay," Dean told him. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Relieved, Sam's eyes rolled back and he collapsed, unconscious, in his brother's comforting embrace.

 **SPN**

 **(Sioux Falls, South Dakota … Monday, November 2, 2005)**

Bobby was waiting for them when they arrived on his porch steps eighteen hours later. "What the hell happened?" he asked anxiously while Dean and Rufus held up a very feeble twenty-two-year-old with Ellen at their heels. They led Sam inside and all but carried him to the couch.

"No offense, Bobby," Rufus replied as they went. "But we could ask you the same question. Weren't you trapped in Purgatory?" Once Sam was settled, they observed the hunter with more than a dollop of suspicion.

Bobby sighed knowingly. "I found a way out, but you can test me if you want."

"Damn straight." Rufus produced a silver knife and flask of holy water from inside his jacket. After splashing Bobby in the face, he proceeded to cut open his palm with no adverse reactions. He was who he claimed to be. "Huh. Something tells me you've got one helluva story for the campfire, you crazy sonuvabitch."

"Thank God," Ellen said, throwing her arms around her old friend. "We thought we'd lost you!"

"You and me both!" Bobby returned the hug warmly. "But all that can wait a few more hours. What's wrong with Sam?" The kid was curled up on the couch with his face buried in a pillow. Ellen stared at her feet while Dean paced in restless agitation.

Rufus took a deep breath and let it out. "We think he's psychic. He had two things on him after his rescue. A charm bracelet and one of those crystals used by fortune-tellers. I mean, real fortune-tellers. Naturally, we dumped the crap, and that's when Sam started having fits. At first, we didn't know what to make of it, but once we left Atlanta, he improved—only till we hit the next city. Then he relapsed. It wasn't hard to see the pattern. The more people he's around, the more overwhelmed he becomes. It's like the volume's up too high. Know what I mean?"

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"We've gotta do something, Bobby!" Dean helplessly exclaimed, which made the hunter's heart clench. "Dad's not answering his phone, and I'm just… I don't know what to do."

Damn John Winchester! Bobby hated how callous he could be toward his own children. Sure, the man loved them, and would die for them, but where was he when they needed his shelter and support? Why was he always neglecting them when they deserved so much better? They shouldn't have to rely on a mean old drunk like Bobby.

"All right," he finally said, taking control of the situation. "I'm friends with a psychic. Let me call her up; she owes me a favor."

 **SPN**

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Sam would give anything to stay asleep. He wasn't ready to face the world yet. Jessica was dead. Cyrus was forsaken. Nothing would ever be the same again. Well… Jacob would still be after him, and Azazel still had plans for him, but if those were the only constants in his life, why bother getting up?

"Sammy…"

He could hear Dean calling out to him. He sounded painfully distant.

"Listen… I never got the chance to say it. But I'm sorry. I'm really, really, honest-to-God sorry… Damn it, Sam…"

His voice faded.

Then, a new voice echoed through the dark. "Hello, Sam. My name is Pamela Barnes, and I'm a friend of Bobby's. I'm not going to hurt you, but it's time to wake up. I know you're scared, and I know how it feels. But I'm here now, and we're gonna get you through this. I promise."

"C'mon, Sammy…" Dean's voice again. "I need you to snap out of it!"

"Dean?" Gradually, his eyes opened, and he found several people watching over him. His brother—his _real_ brother. Bobby. Ellen. Rufus. And Pamela—an athletic, dark-haired woman with sharp green eyes and a ready smile.

"There you are," she said pleasantly. "How do you feel?"

Hesitating, Sam struggled to sit up, and Dean rushed to his assistance. Truth was, he felt cold, lost, miserable, and pathetic, but on the other hand, at least he wasn't alone anymore. Dean was here. He had his family back, and suddenly, for one precious moment, he felt a fleeting sense of calm.

 **SPN**

 _ **Author's Note:**_ _Wow, I can't believe I wrote all this! What an amazing experience! A special thanks to everyone who reviewed. I might not have had the motivation without you. Now, I'm contemplating a third installment, and I'd love to hear your thoughts._

 _ **Please Review! :-)**_


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